Seeds of Time
by EffulgentlyDani
Summary: The Hellmouth is closed, Anya and Spike are dead, and the remaining gang is scattered far and wide. Xander's lost in the heart of Africa, seeking an impossible demon. What he finds, instead, is a shaman, a vision quest...and a secret: If only Buffy and Spike had been joined together in unconditional love, they all could have been saved.
1. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

She was probably in shock. Floating on the afterglow of the battle with the First, feeling as if she'd fucked and sucked her way into some kind of supernatural post-coital bliss, throbbing and radiating from the depths of her womanhood, shooting in waves like orgasms to the tips of her fingers and toes.

It was finally over.

They stood there together, what was left of their band of champions, on the edge of the crater that was once Sunnydale. She and her sisters, her friends, her Watcher. Adrenaline still pumping in tsunami-strength overdrive, a deep crimson flush still tingeing each cheek. Gazing, twitching, a steady buzz of shared anticipation vibrating around them like catsuits.

They'd fought hard, fought dirty. And they'd won, on their own terms, with a shared power forged in soulfire. Slayer soulfire.

Buffy looked at the faces surrounding her. She was their leader, and there was only one thing she could to do: grab the cell phone that was, luckily, still lodged in the front pocket of her jeans and make the call to Angel.

"Come on out, Buffy. You're always welcome here, you know that," he said. His voice was overcome with relief. He clearly had worried that they'd make it through to the other end. "And please, stay as long as you need."

So she herded everyone back onto the bus. They dropped Robin and a few of the more injured girls at the hospital in the next town over, then embarked on the two-hour drive that would take them into the heart of Los Angeles. The city of angels. The city of _Angel_.

Buffy remembered little of the drive, so numb was she with the shock of what had just happened. It wasn't until they arrived in the lobby of the Hyperion Hotel that she became aware of her surroundings again.

She played Mother Hen, feeling for broken bones, wrapping sprains, bandaging wounds. She worked her way from sister to slayer to friend, mending and caressing, hugging and consoling. Methodically clearing the residual debris that irritated bodies and irked minds. She offered what little remained of her heart and her energy, sparing nary a stray speculation on Spike or the Scoobies, Sunnydale or Angel. She didn't dare think about anything having to do with regular life, in all its never-ending, relentlessly complicated, Lifetime-turned-SyFy movie-of-the-week glory.

Feeling utterly drained of life, she finally retreated to the private room Angel had given her. She didn't even have the energy to act surprised when she found him perched at the end of her queen-sized bed, waiting with his hands fisted in his lap and his eyes turned downward to the patterned rug under his Adidas.

She took a few steps into the room and he rose, arms outstretched and eyes full of silent, tender support. A few steps more and she leaned into him, though she kept her own arms tight against her chest, allowing him to draw her weak body into his chilly embrace. They stayed like that for a few minutes, neither moving, only one of them breathing softly, shallowly. As the quiet surrounded her and reality started to set in, an emptiness overtook her, cutting a hole through her middle and dropping her heart and stomach to the floor.

Buffy collapsed, the last of her breath rushing from her lungs. And as the world started to dim, she vaguely felt Angel swept her up into his arms and carried her to the bed, where he lay her softly against the quilt and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

When she could finally breathe again, when the world came back into focus, she looked up at him, noting sorrow and anguish in his eyes. Sympathy. For her. And she lost it again, completely.

"G-g-gone, A-A-Angel," she stammered between sobs. "H-heee's g-gone. Th-th-they're gone. H-h-h-he's...h-h-he's...oh, Angel. H-h-h-he's-"

"Sshhhh, Buffy, hussssssshhhh. Hush now, breathe," he crooned. "Breathe, baby. Just breathe."

He rubbed her back, drawing his hands up and down, up and down, and she closed her eyes to concentrate on the pattern he was tracing into her back. Slowly, she felt the tears quiet, the numbness return. She steadied herself with a few slow inhales, exhales.

In the instant he sensed her weeping cease, Angel drew back, ran his hand over her forehead, then bent and touched his lips to hers.

She'd seen him only days ago. Had kissed him welcome, delighting in his attention and his presence. But now, after months—no, years—of desperate separation, when Angel undoubtedly had expected complete surrender, Buffy's body went rogue. She panicked, her feet scrambling over the bed and to the opposite side of the room, where she pressed the flat of her back tight against the drywall. Her socked feet slipped hysterically against the weave of the Persian rug.

"Buffy…Buffy!" Angel's eyes went wide. He advanced on her, palms out and yielding, moving quickly—too quickly—around the foot board, closing in on her shaking body. "Sweetheart, what-it's...it's okay."

"Angel, no! No! Stop!"

It was too similar. Too much like the bathroom at home. Another time, another night, another vampire.

_Her_ vampire.

Too many memories, too many sensations.

She jerked back, hard. Hit her head and saw stars.

"I'm really sorry, Buffy," Angel lamented, minutes later, once her eyes had finally cleared to find his worried face hovering over hers.

She was flat on her back, on top of the bed. He must have carried her there again.

"I thought you'd want me to...to..." Angel stammered. Then, hanging his head, he said, "Well, I'm-I'm just sorry."

And then he wiped his palms against his thighs—an odd gesture for someone who didn't sweat—and asked if there was anything he could do for her. Buffy only shook her head, climbed out of the bed and walked right by him, evading an invitation back into his cold arms for the privacy of the locked bathroom.

She'd realize much, much later that it would have been easy to simply give in. Hell, it would have been _safe_ to do it. To just lose herself in him. Amidst such desolation, such numbness, the last thing she needed to worry about was Angel...or Angelus...or even a moment with _either_ that was anywhere near pure happiness. Later, she would look back and understand that there was just too much trauma, too much tragedy to allow any happiness to seep through.

But she didn't consider any of that now. Instead, she retreated into herself. Turned on the shower head, climbed into the tub. Stood there, leaning with her forehead against the cold tile wall as the water warmed from cold to hot to scalding, pounding her neck and shoulders, pooling at her ankles.

Angel wasn't the one she wanted. She wanted Spike. But Spike was dead. Spike wasn't coming back.

The first time the realization hit, she was genuinely scared it would kill her. She'd never felt like this before. Not when Mom had died or Tara…not even when she'd been forced to kill her first love in the moments after his soul had been restored.

Pain like she'd never felt before lanced through her body, searing her from front to back with its bolts of barbed lightning, melting her insides and stealing her breath. Maybe she really _was_ dying. Maybe that would be easier. And decided it was, she closed her eyes and yielded completely to it.

It didn't take her, though. When the wave ebbed and she could suddenly breathe again, she lifted her face to the water as if allowing it to wash the last vestiges of death from her skin. Numbness returned for a whole second or two, giving her the chance to take a breath. Then the awareness of Spike's death flashed again across her mind, slamming into her like a wrecking ball and stealing her breath.

And it kept happening, over and over. She'd be overwhelmed with pain, convinced she was dying for a few moments, then the universe would swing back and fill her with life once again.

Before long, she lost the strength to remain upright and slid to the floor of the tub, sitting curled there for what felt like hours, her brain revving, her body numb. Weeping against the tiles, slapping weak fists against the bath water as it rose higher and higher up her hips. Shouting curses to an ignorant universe until the pool surrounding her went cold.

When she finally emerged from the bathroom, shivering and breathless but ready for bed, Angel was gone. She stumbled across the dark room, fell into the bed, and immediately yielded to an eclipse of dreamless sleep.


	2. I Have Thee Not and Yet I See Thee Still

_**Is this a dagger which I see before me,**_

_**The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.**_

_**I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.**_

_**Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible**_

_**To feeling as to sight? or art thou but**_

_**A dagger of the mind, a false creation,**_

_**Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?**_

_~ from MacBeth_  
_(MacBeth, Act 2, Scene 1, Lines 33-39)_  
_by William Shakespeare_

**PART ONE**

**Chapter One: I Have Thee Not and Yet I See Thee Still**

The wind whipped and swirled, clearing the dense cloud of dust so only a hand-hewn stake and Buffy's outstretched arm were left visible in the moonlight. The world was still, lulled by the rhythmic cadence of chirping crickets and the breeze gusting through the foliage, and far off in the distance came the wail of a police siren.

The eight vamps who had just emerged from the crypt in West Park Cemetery hadn't likely planned on a dusty mass demise, but they were going to get one. Eight idiots, adorned in bandannas and skully caps, baggy jeans and dingy white wife beaters. Through the muddled haze that had become Buffy's consciousness, she'd identified them as fledglings, marking them from yards away with their clumbsy, lumbering advances.

Watching them reminded her of that old 80's gang movie Xander used to watch...the one with the cover full of half-naked hotties clad in leather vests and jeans, heads cropped at various levels of bald and feathered and 'fro-ed. What was that movie called? Oh, yeah. _The Warriors_, she remembered, recalling the giggle she'd had after the scene with the thug clinking bottles together, sing-songing threats to the rival gang.

Xander, as he always had when faced with _someone who doesn't know better_, had merely scowled and told her she had no appreciation for true art. And then he'd meted out a waterfall of trivial cinematic facts...like the director's curriculum vitae, the brand name of celluloid film they'd used during shooting...perhaps the names of the main actor's second cousins' wives. She could no longer recall. It was a bittersweet memory, this and all the others like it of her life in Sunnydale. A happier, more secure space in time.

And it almost made her smile—just a hint of it, in that warm, not-quite-sad way reminiscences of her friends had always made her smile—as she stood there watching the baby vamps encroach, two-stepping across the lawn, goading her with taunts and jeers. She could almost hear those three empty bottles and a melodic invitation: _"Slayer, come out and pla-eeee-ay…"_

Then the memory shifted, transforming into the dark alley behind the Bronze, where there was a beam of street light, its perimeter cast in deep shadows. A single fledgling, only just staked and dusted...and_ him._ Palms slap-slap-slapping together, the sound echoing off the bricks like those clanging bottles. One, two, three times, as his pale, chiseled face and muscled body emerged from the shadows.

_**Clap, clap, clap** Nice work, love._

_Who are you?_

_You'll find out on Saturday._

_What happens Saturday?_

_I kill you._

And as occurred with memories of him, the wrecking ball of panic swung forth and she feared it would do just that: kill her. It always felt like that. Now, months later, the pain had grown no better. For as a shudder wracked her small frame, piercing deep behind her breast, it suffocated the life out of her. Then it waned, numbed, and left behind an even deeper rut of ache.

She'd gotten used to the marooned feeling, though. That dragging melancholy, with all of its heavy emptiness constantly weighing her down. And champion that she was, she forced herself to push it inward, instead clutching the stake and raising her fist as the first hapless vamp neared.

Moving through the motions automatically—_punch-kick-stake, rinse and repeat—_she drew the momentum from the first dusting into the second, then the third and the fourth. Buffy kicked out behind her, catching another vamp's foreleg before she swung the hand holding her stake into and through the fifth vampire's chest. She barely flinched as the sixth vamp struck out, his fist making contact with her cheek in the seconds before she twisted back and staked him, too.

As the dust settled, the pain returned, always the same. The same swinging-swinging-swinging wrecking ball, just as it had since that day in the shower.

Buffy wasn't sure how much longer she'd be able to go on like this. She'd been lost in this endlessly dark void for months, in a place where no light seemed to shine, where the air smelled of stale old people and she walked around feeling like she had cotton balls wedged down deep in her ears. She just couldn't seem to muster the interest to connect with the world around her, for she'd left so much behind, lost too many important pieces of herself to function, to be whole again. Mom, Tara, Anya. _Deep breath. _Spike. All of them back there, down there, buried there, deep beneath the dirt and the rubble and the wreckage, in the place that used to be home…

And unlike her first trip through these swamps of sorrow, she now had no one at whom to direct the anger. Not like before, when there'd been a ho-bag, she-bitch, sister-murderer with a lopsided ass and a bad perm. Not like before, when there'd been…someone to shove against the wall, someone she could beg to make her feel again. She had no one. No one to help her take on the oceans of shame. No expanse of flesh to batter and bruise, to mar and wound and blacken so its outsides matched her insides. No one to shove between her legs, no velvety tongue to press against her sex, no hard cock to fill her to the hilt, make her feel, make her come, make her remember she existed.

"Yo, B! You okay?"

Faith's shout rang out from across the graveyard, pulling her back to the here and now, serving as a momentary distraction…and okay, maybe a small reminder that there _were_ some people out there who cared about her.

It had taken a while to open herself up to them again. She suspected most of them would say she still hadn't yet.

Those who'd escaped the pits of Sunnydale had enjoyed a short but comfortable respite in L.A., helping Angel's team as much as they could as bodies healed and minds relaxed. When Robin was released a few days later, Faith had borrowed Fred's car to go collect him. She returned the same night with the principal in tow and a car full of slayerettes with a bad case of cabin fever, their quick healing having puzzled an entire hospital staff.

Giles, Andrew and Dawn had departed for England shortly thereafter, the two men focused on rebranding the new Council, Dawn on the start of a semester abroad. Willow and Kennedy headed for the airport, bound on a beach vacation. Xander hadn't said much; Buffy hadn't pushed.

A few of the younger slayerettes elected to return to the warmth of home, choosing the safe arms of Mommy and Daddy over the thrill of the next fray.

The rest, Buffy accompanied back onto the yellow school bus. After a stoic, tear-free goodbye to Angel and the AI team, she'd spent five days co-piloting to the Cleveland Hellmouth, shouting a series of directions from her spot behind the driver's seat, fumbling awkwardly with a much-creased road map and the TomTom they'd stolen from Andrew. She'd even spared a quick smile—one that didn't reach her eyes—when Rona asked her to drive, informing her young protégé that she could barely manage her mom's Jeep on the quiet streets of Sunnydale, let alone an unforgiving school bus over 2,500 cross-country miles. The dreadlocked girl had simply shrugged, nonplussed.

Securing a few apartments in an old, rundown building near the center of Cleveland had taken a few hours, even less for them to get the lay of the land for some semblance of a slaying routine. Within days, Robin had secured a teaching position at the local high school where some of the younger girls had enrolled as students. Some of their elders enrolled in the local community college. Life went back to semi-normal.

Under Giles' control, the Council had even provided health insurance, approved a weekly stipend that helped cover the costs of food, rent, utilities, the occasional road trip. All in all, the relocation had served its purpose, offering the familiarity of constant demon-hunting opportunities, laced with a new and strengthening undercurrent of sisterly camaraderie.

And so it went, Buffy and Faith leading a steadily-growing group of virgin slayers, taking turns imparting upon them the mechanics of the calling. Faith trained and slayed with gusto, reflecting an intense passion and sharing her love of the kill with everyone she came in contact with, in everything she did. Buffy's approach was decidedly different, done without touching on the emotions, the heart and soul of the calling. For her, it was a duty, a way to keep busy. The monotony of it gave her comfort. Cleveland was, to her more than anyone, a change in scenery and little else.

The multitude of slayers eliminated the need for solo patrols, though Buffy kept up a regular route of her own, systematically winding and weaving alone through the streets and around the gravestones. Slaying dulled the heartache, allowed her to forget that integral, this-is-who-Buffy-Summers-is piece that was left behind in the crater. She fell into an apathetic nothingness, like the time she was 12 and getting her tonsils out, when the surgeon leaned over and told her to count backwards from 10...9...8...

"All clear, B?" Faith's voice echoed again, filled with her trademark confidence and shrill strength. The brunette strode across the cemetery, tucking a stake into the arm of her leather jacket as she neared her sister slayer.

"Yeah, it's clear." Buffy murmured. She spoke very little these days, and when she did, her voice was always a quiet monotone. She could manage only the necessary words, no intonation, no puns, no snappy comebacks. No reason, no urge to go to the trouble.

"Fall back, chickadees. We're five by five," Faith called, waving to the trainees behind her before turning her attention back to Buffy. "Hey, so...we're gonna hit the Doghouse, throw a few back. You wanna come with, B?"

A neighborhood dive bar that looked like a men's locker room and smelled like a urinal, the Doghouse served cheap whiskey and cold beer. You were always sure to find a bet on the edge of an empty pool table and a good old fashioned brawl in the back alley. In other words, it was Faith's idea of paradise.

But Buffy rarely joined them and tonight would be no different. "I don't think so." Her refusal came out like a whisper as she turned to leave the cemetery. At the sidewalk, Buffy paused, turned and noticed Faith was still watching. "But...thanks. Um, you guys have fun."

The brunette slayer nodded with a sad smile and a two-fingered salute. As Buffy turned to walk away, she was only peripherally aware of the slow shaking of her sister slayer's head, and the way Faith just stood there, bathed in the streetlight that emphasized her large, worried doe eyes, staring long after Buffy had disappeared from view.

* * *

_His eyes. His piercing blue eyes, in the moment he'd felt the amulet come to life. The crystal clear blue depths, the way they bore into her, filled with raw emotion, sheer astonishment. The awe that filled his voice when he said, "I can feel it, Buffy."_

_"What?" Momentary confusion. Buffy's mind raced. Breathe. Swallow._

_Spike looked upward, down to his chest, back at her, his eyes wide with wonder as he clarified. "My soul. It's really there." He smirked. "Kind of stings."_

_Buffy's eyes welled with tears, her heart overflowing with pride, and for the millionth time this week alone, she was struck with the realization that Spike was the real deal, the genuine article, a worthy champion, a man of true valor._

_"Spike, come on," she urged, but he wouldn't budge. She tried again, begged, cajoled, pleaded with him to move, to give up, to follow her. The amulet had done its job. The Turok Han were dead. He was done._

_Spike resisted."Go on, then," he said. "You've beat them back. It's for me to do the cleanup."_

_She hesitated, begged again, this time pouring all of her desires, every last drop of supplication she could possibly muster, into her eyes. His voice only became more resolute, more stern. "Gotta move, lamb. I think it's fair to say school's out for bloody summer."_

_"Spike!" She suddenly reached out to touch him, laced her fingers through his, watched as their paired palms burst into flames, ignited with a fire that had once frozen her. Back when she'd first been resurrected, when she'd been unable to feel. Before he'd reminded her how._

_It occurred to her in the instant she said it that it wasn't nearly enough, but she spoke the words regardless. "I love you."_

_His attention was drawn from their joined hands, his eyes reflecting the flames as he gazed down into her face. Spike's head tilted in that way it always did, his expression soft, sympathetic. "No, you don't. But thanks for saying it."_

_Another quake of the earth, and their hands were forced apart before Buffy had the chance to argue. Before she could tell him to ditch the amulet, follow her into their own happily ever after. Stop playing the hero. Be hers._

_"Now go!" He was screaming at her, and Buffy's brained seized with the split second choice between fight or flight. Flight won. Suddenly, nothing was more essential than getting out, nothing more relevant than the knowledge that it would soon be too late. She needed to move, like, right now._

_As she raced up the stairs, she could have sworn she heard Spike laugh and mutter, "I wanna see how it ends."_

_She ran. Always running, mindlessly swinging her feet from one long stride into the next. Moving in the opposite direction of her heart, leaving it behind as Sunnydale crumbled into oblivion around her. Racing out into the sunshine, pelting across the rooftops to follow the yellow school bus, leave the town, escape the madness._

_As she neared the edge of a tall building, the opposite side crumbling behind her, she leapt and—_

Buffy jerked awake, the rooftop below her popping like a bubble, fading to black as her eyelids struggled to break through the crust that encased her lashes and glued them together. She dug the side of her hand into the aching sockets, rubbed hard until the graininess scratched her cornea. Rubbed until she could feel the pain, could enjoy the hurt.

It was always the same dream leaving her tattered and torn, night after night. The same stretch of time, beginning with the look in Spike's eyes when he first realized the depths of his soul, right up to the moment she told him she loved him and he denied her. Refused her.

Right up to the moment she left him and chose flight over flight.

_fight or flight or fight or flight or fight or flight and why oh why didn't you stay and fight or flight or fight or flight_

A powerful wave of guilt washed over her, and she threw the edge of the comforter back over itself, sat up, swung her legs off the edge of the bed. Grabbed the neck of the half-empty bottle of whiskey from the table next to her pillow. Put it to her mouth, threw back her head, took a large, burning pull of the brown liquid.

_Bleccch._

Buffy grimaced at the taste, fought against the memories the reaction always evoked. Of crypt-side confidences, promises of dark world excitement, backroom kitty-funded demon poker. She shook her head hard, closed her eyes, took a breath. Cleared the train of thought, silenced the memories.

A second swig aroused the same grimace, but the memories were less intense. The third swallow went down without a hitch. Buffy braced herself against the nausea awakened by the fourth mouthful—always there, always expected—and she struggled to hold back the knot of phlegm threatening emergence. Nodded with satisfaction to no one at all, mentally congratulating herself for keeping the ever-familiar taste of vomit down where it belonged.

_down down down where he belongs keep it down keep him down I left him down left him left him left him_

And even as her mind raced, her stomach finally settled, and Buffy reached to set the bottle once more on the bedside table. It bobbled, knocked against the framed photo of a smiling Dawn, and she caught it, steadied it on its heavy, square base. Buffy reached for the soft pack of Camels to its left, pinched out a stick, raised it to her mouth. Grabbed his silver Zippo lighter.

_what's mine what's mine just come for what's mine this flapjack's not ready to flip love don't call me love don't call me love_

She pressed the wheel down with her thumb, struck the flint, stared at the flame, held it to the end of the cigarette. One second, two. Inhaled, exhaled. Let the scent surround her, the memories with it. Sweet tobacco, musky leather, honeyed whiskey.

Him.

_him him him too much too much too much him him him not enough alcohol too many memories_

With a tiny cough, Buffy lowered the cigarette from her mouth, left it to burn in the overflowing ashtray, its purple plume creating smoke clouds around her head, enrobing her with the familiar scent.

Buffy closed her eyes, reached again, this time for the bottle of water she'd set on the table beside the whiskey. It took three wobbly grabs before she made contact with the plastic bottle, and it made a crinkley sound in her fist...a brash, loud, painful, rumpling noise that would have hurt her ears if they weren't constantly numb, constantly popped. Her body was exhausted and famished, her grip unusually weak as she twisted the plastic cap, put the rim to her lips, took a long swig of the clear, tepid liquid. She waited for the icky feeling to pass, returned the water bottle to its original, upright position. Grabbed the whiskey bottle once again.

Two more swallows. Placed the bottle back on the table.

Buffy sat, hunched over the side of the bed, waiting for the six shots of hard liquor to hit. Six shots, sixteen minutes. She'd timed it, weeks ago, during an infinitely more lucid phase. It took sixteen minutes for the dizziness to hit. Seven minutes more to numb the ache, that utter and absolute oppression always threatening to overtake. Another five for the world to fade into a fuzzy nothingness. Only then could she retreat back into the unconsciousness of slumber once again.

Nothing new. Nothing but the ache and the guilt and the sorrow and the loneliness. A world of numbness. Not alive, just _there_.

Because she'd never feel alive again.

She'd forgotten how without him there to remind her.


	3. Sensible to Feeling as to Sight

**Chapter Two: Sensible to Feeling as to Sight**

Years ago—she'd been pretty young, maybe eight or nine—Willow had a bright red yo-yo. For weeks after her mom had given it to her, she'd studied it, winding and unwinding the string, prying the plastic halves apart, examining the tiny ball bearings and screws that held it all together. Entirely uninterested in learning tricks like Walking the Dog or Around the World, she'd been engrossed in disassembling it, analyzing its components, and then putting them all back together again.

To a girl who'd mastered multiplication at age four and read Tolkien by eight, the mechanics had been simple. The constant alternation between translational and rotational kinetic energy. The way inertia fought the force of gravity and friction caused it to unwind or spin or free fall. There was a comforting science to it, a series of definitive calibrations relating to weight and force and air resistance that guaranteed a correctly-thrown trick would always, always work, exactly the same way, every single time.

It didn't surprise Willow to find that she and astral projection were a bit less mixy. That the thrust and recoil of _it_ was significantly less mathematical, infinitely less black and white. And much, much easier said than done.

Still, when she thought about it, the two—that red yo-yo and astral projection—weren't all that different. The problem was that the latter made her feel as if she'd launched herself into the universe and failed to wind back correctly, and it left her in knots, all discombobulated and wonky-like. Disentangling herself required a great deal more patience than manual dexterity, and she rarely went in or came out of it with any certainty she'd secured the slip knot that kept her tethered.

It was in this shaky state that she found herself sitting on her purple yoga mat, having just made the return trip back from her most recent out-of-body experience, acknowledging that it had been more grueling, more emotionally exhausting than any before. For a full five minutes, she just let herself _be_. Inhaling. Exhaling. Stretching. Steadying herself against the wall behind her. Visualizing cleansing thoughts.

And mentally erasing the tableau to which she'd just borne witness: Buffy, binge drinking alone in the darkness, a hollow in her cheeks and an emptiness in her eyes. The rancid stench of vomit, rotting food, stale cigarettes, hard alcohol.

It had been several days since they'd last spoken, weeks more since they'd seen one another. Willow had been thinking about the blonde slayer all day, imagining Buffy as she'd prepared herself for the astral plane, and as she'd closed her eyes and shed the shell of her body—_wham!—_she'd been Cleveland-bound and gagging on funky Buffy filth in four seconds flat.

Now, Willow focused on the sound of crashing waves outside the window, the faint scent of saltwater, the tackiness of the briny humidity. Sensations that were familiar after several weeks on the Brazilian shore, that grounded her and centered her faculties.

In the time after Wrathful Willow, when she'd had to drudge her way back from all that was dark and nefarious, Giles had trained her on Taoist meditation techniques, demonstrating how to visualize her inner essences and commune with the deities she called upon in her magicks. She'd taken to this quiet introspection like a moth to a flame, and practicing it had slowly purged the blackness, reconnecting her with Mother Earth. Later, the discipline had buoyed her through a return trip home and kept her centered through the fight with the Turok Han and the First.

But she'd needed more than meditation to unwind those knots accrued, so she and Kennedy had nearly sprinted to Brazil, where they hopped from beachside village to beachside village, finally settling in a quaint little town just south of Rio de Janeiro. They'd rented a small cottage, paid in full for a month, with plans to do nothing but bask in sunshine, smoochies and sexy time before joining Giles in England.

It was a good plan, she supposed, and as they say, it was the thought that counted. But she'd realized only a few days into the Brazilian adventure that the Willow-Kennedy flame was slowly snuffing out. The lack of intimacy made it difficult to look at the brown-haired beauty with more than just superficial attraction.

One night, Xander had called to check in between Yuma and Portland...Albuquerque...maybe Seattle...and she'd briefly mentioned her concern with the waning Kennedy sparkage. He'd gone all soldiery, as he always did, told her the relationship had been born in the depths of wartime, doomed to fade the moment the stress of the fight had ebbed. Yadda, yaddaand more yadda. He'd been right, of course. And if she'd been really honest with herself, she'd known it all along. Well, not "known it" in the sense of having the slightest idea...but she'd known there was something she didn't know. If that made any sense.

The next evening, after a particularly dismal and rainy afternoon, Kennedy had returned to find Willow reading from an old grimoire and had launched into an hour-long bitchfest about Willow's continued use of magicks—for though she'd been all for it in Sunnydale, Kennedy had been much less spell-supportive after the fact. Willow had refused to acquiesce, and Kennedy had packed a suitcase, then left with Daddy's credit card and a bag of weed she'd procured from the next village over.

"You know what? Fuck you, Willow," the chocolate-haired slayer had said. "You're so caught up in all that magical crap that you don't see what's right in front of you. Memories and magic, that's all you fucking care about. I'm not putting up with it anymore. Fuck that." And she'd slammed the door in retreat.

Willow, relieved to be free of the burden, had merely stretched a small smile over her face and waved as her ex-lover walked away. Then she'd taken to nursing her own hurts...which, in this case, were a bad case of sunburn and a perpetually broken heart that had never been given the chance to properly grieve.

Aloe vera provided the necessary balm for the external pain. The internal cure still remained a mystery.

An email arrived three days later from Faith, confirming Kennedy's arrival at the Cleveland Hellmouth. Taking it as her cue to do her own moving on, Willow had cranked up the tunes—you just couldn't beat classic Dingos—and danced her way around the cottage, packing up the last several weeks of her life. Then she'd spent an hour Skyping with Althanea, shot a quick email to Andrew, and called Giles to tell him she'd be making her way there later that same week. That yes, she was fine, and no, Kennedy wouldn't be joining her after all.

It was time to get back to reality, even if she would rather spend the next sixty years in prison, breaking rocks and making special friends with Roscoe the Weightlifter, than go back to slayer support services on a full-time basis.

But Giles needed her help and she took comfort in his confidence. She thrived on the quiet thrum of the earth's magick, found solace in channeling it for the greater good. Its steady vibration reminded her that she was part of something bigger. She'd have missed it more than she missed math class and research parties and homework all put together.

She'd have missed it almost as much as she missed Tara.

_Goddess_, did she miss her. The soft and quiet warmth of her arms, the cushion of her ample chest, the languid, reverential lovemaking that had evolved from their stable relationship. She craved Tara's kiss, her caress, the tenor of her sweet, angelic voice.

It didn't hurt _quite_ as much as it had before, though. _That_ suffering had, fortunately, been finite. Brutal, disabling and black-veiny-making, for sure, but finite. She'd eventually gotten to the point where she could breathe and get out of bed in the morning after months of not being able to. Nowadays it just felt as if she'd lost a foot and had learned to dance with a limp.

_S_he reminded herself that Buffy needed her, and shaking her head hard to clear the reverie, Willow grabbed her cell phone from the table near the door and dialed Xander's number, realizing she had no idea where or how far away he was. The line went immediately to his tinny voice mail message, and she waited as he informed her of his vacation and that a return call might take some time.

At the beep, she lamented her poor voicemail skills as she said, "Xand, uh, hey, hon. It's me. I miss you, big guy. Lots and lots. Listen, I'm not really sure where you are, but I really hope you get this soon. So...uh, yeah...so we've got a little problem. Well, a big one. Okay, well, not a _we problem_, as in you, Xander, me, Willow...more like a Buffy problem. You remember Buffy, right? Ha ha! Only, well, it's not a Buffy-we-need-you-to-slay-a-beastie kind of problem like it usually is when emergencies arise. It is, quite literally, a _Buffy_ problem. As in Buffy _is_ the problem. And, well, anyways, um, I'm rambling, so, well, yeah...you have to help me figure this out. Call me. Love you."

Willow hung up and tucked the smartphone into her bra strap as she stood, rolled up her yoga mat. She flipped the light off and pulled the door shut behind her, exiting the empty bedroom. And since she'd forgotten to do so a couple of minutes before, Willow offered up a prayer of thanks to Hecate, asking her to grant repose to Tara's soul with an extra special request to keep Buffy safe as well.

Then she dialed the number for Delta and began making plans to go save her best friend.

* * *

Xander had been through some crazy ass, miserable shit. He had a three-inch scar on his belly from the time a date went demon in an attempt to sacrifice him for the First. He'd nearly had his life sucked out by a truly scrumptious—if he did say so himself—Inca mummy come to life. He'd once been stricken with a bad case of syphilis, smallpox and malaria...all at the same time.

He now knew those things had _nothing_ on the African desert.

_Merciful Zeus, it's fucking hot here,_ he thought as he sat at a sidewalk cafe, fanning his sweat-drenched face with a tourist map he'd grabbed several hundred miles ago. With a nod of thanks to the server for his drink and sandwich, Xander lifted the glass of water and dialed Giles' number with his other hand. The ringing ceased after only two rings and he cringed when the familiar British voice answered.

Did that ever bring back the _ache_.

Xander had run. From the comfort of his friends, from the emptiness that was his family, from the regularity of his daily routine. It had all been too overwhelming, too agitating, too _everything, _reminding him too much of what he'd lost, and making him sad when he couldn't afford to be. Once he'd been sure the girls were settled, he'd gotten angry...and he'd gotten gone. He'd grabbed his wallet and his passport, packed a few pairs of underwear and a toothbrush, then tightened the band around his eye patch so it dug painfully into his cheek and left a rut near his tear duct. He remembered hoping it would bruise. It had.

His first stop was Seattle, not because there was anything he wanted to see or because he'd never been there before, but because it was the first available flight out of LAX, he had an empty credit card—paid off months before, thanks to Anya—and he needed someplace to go. Several hours later, and with the majority of a three-hour layover in Seattle behind him, Xander found himself on another flight, on his way across the ocean...to Africa.

It had seemed like a sign. Like something was drawing him there. As if a part of him knew instinctively that it was where he needed to be. Because if nothing else, that sounded kind of nice.

A few weeks before the battle with the First, Spike had regaled a room full of Potentials with the tales of his own trip to Africa. He'd told them about the grant-wishing demon, about the tests and trials and tribulations and torments and...well, a bunch of other T words that sounded really _cool_ in a British accent (though Xander would never admit it, of course). And the vampire had told them how he'd eventually gotten what he'd come for: his soul.

As far as Xander was concerned, if an evil-turned-neutered-turned...okay, somewhat helpful master vampire could get his biggest wish granted, surely a regular human deserved it, too. He'd put in the time, hadn't he? Done enough to qualify in the "above and beyond" category with Captain Peroxide?

The irony hadn't been, nor was it still, lost on him. He'd always hated all things demonic and he hadn't been afraid to say so. And now, he traveled the world in search of a demon's aid...to beg a demon's favor...because he thought he deserved the same chance _another_ demon had gotten doing the same damn thing. Go figure.

He'd first landed in Kenya, and Giles had put him in contact with a few recently Slayer-fied Potentials who were stationed just south of the airport. They'd been friendly enough, having heard stories about Buffy and her ragtag team of Scoobies, and in return for a repaired coffee table and a few replacement windows, they'd put him in touch with a group of loose-skinned demons—a la Clem—who had, in turn, referred him to a coven of witches in Tanzania. They'd fed him, given him a bed for the night, and introduced him to some friendly Ithykwiz demons just north of Zimbabwe.

And so it went, over and over, Xander finding himself passing numbly from one home, one hovel to the next, growing accustomed to the constant shuffling over unfamiliar terrain and into unfamiliar habitats. Always a stranger, on the outside looking in, and where he'd once relied on sarcasm and humor to bridge gaps, he now remained silent. People probably assumed he was aloof, detached. He no longer cared. The numbing anger made it unnecessary.

Alexander Harris had grown hard, complacent. He spoke only when necessary, certain he'd have plenty of time to talk later, once he'd found someone who could help him overcome this staggering disappointment that had become his life. Someone who could say more than, "I don't know, but I might know someone who does..."

He hadn't found anyone to help yet. What he _had_ found, however, was sand. Lots and lots of sand. And small bunches of green vegetation strewn here and there, with wildlife grazing over vast, dry valleys and little water in sight. Vehicles—they called 'em _bakkies—_trailed by billowing dust, their wheels digging trenches in the sand. And, every now and again, a bicycle bearing a stranger with skin the color of dark chocolate, an upturned crescent of white, white teeth spanning a ruggedly beautiful face.

But mostly just lots and lots of sand.

Somewhere outside of Zimbabwe, he'd caught a bus and settled himself in the back seat between a murky window and an ebony-skinned woman with a belly so big she could have been nearing her eighth trimester with quadruplets. Three of her kids sat on the bench in front of them, taking turns peering over the plastic seat and giggling at Xander. It wasn't hard to ignore them. The ever-present anger anesthetized the world, sort of just...obscuring everything.

And as he'd sat there staring out the window, avoiding the game of peekaboo six inches from his forehead, he'd noticed the red of the sand outside his window, as if the individual grains had been saturated with blood, then the blood had been washed away to leave a burnt orange tinge to everything. Call it exhaustion or delirium or who-knows-what-ium, but it forged one of those weird connections, because the sand was the same orange of the faded upholstery covering that ratty lounge chair back in the basement apartment—what a dump that place had been, filled with secondhand crap like his uncle's old fold-out sofa, a hot burner that only worked half the time, and that goddamn orange chair. How many times had he and Anya had themselves a good, raunchy shag session in that chair? Like that one time it had occupied him so completely he hadn't noticed until much later that a broken spring had bored a hole into his left ass cheek. That's how it always was when they made love...that tunnel vision that blocked the entire world out. _Fuck but that Anya had gold between her legs. Motherfucking gold._

The pain her name evoked forced the train of thought away, as it always did, shoving the memories into the dark recesses of his mind just like he'd shoved that ratty chair to the end of the driveway on garbage day. By the time the bus had made its next stop, he'd forgotten the red of the sand and had waved a smile-less goodbye to the kids and their swollen mother, setting out to find somewhere to sit and make a phone call.

"G-man, it's Xander," he said into the phone, knowing full well that the smile he'd forced into his voice came across phony. He didn't really care. "I finally made it. How goes it, Watcher?"

"Oh, Xander, I'm so glad you've arrived safely. There was a Haxil beast impregnating women in southern Malawi..bloody hell, I'd hoped you'd missed it. Nasty buggers, those Haxil." The last sentence came across the connection a little lower than the rest, as if the mouthpiece of Giles' phone had shifted away from his lips. Wiping his glasses, no doubt.

Xander could manage only a few words of small talk, though, and Rupert knew it, so instead of forcing him to struggle through conversation, the older man immediately offered the contact details for a nearby colleague and wished him well.

Xander thanked him, hung up and dialed the local exchange, waiting a few moments as the operator connected him to Giles' Watcher friend, a British ex-pat named Patrick Strum.

"Giles told you to ring me? Blimey, it's good t'hear the ol' bastard's well," he lilted, in a voice slightly deeper than Rupert's. "How can I help ya, mate?"

But he hadn't known anything. Same as the rest..._always the same_...just another friend of a friend whose friend might be able to help. Strum had told him about a shaman living within an ancient hunter-gatherer tribe far out into the heart of the Kalahari Desert, and had assured him that, if there was a demon out there with the power to grant a vampire his soul, the shaman would know how to find him.

Xander thanked him for his time, hung up, and forced a few bites of tasteless food down his gullet. He wasn't hungry_—_he was _never_ hungry_—_but he knew his body required fuel. When he'd finished and paid the bill, he wandered the market until he found a couple of friendly guys loading a Jeep just outside of the bus station. Within the hour, he was seated in the backseat, bounding across the desert yet again.

Though admittedly, _seated_ might've been a bit of a stretch. Ten minutes into the trip, and Xander knew his ass had spent more time airborne than in contact with the vinyl bench, evidenced even further by his white knuckles grasping the oh-shit handles in an effort to keep his body_—_and his lunch_—_inside.

Fenyang, the dark-skinned fellow occupying the driver's seat, had a penchant for driving the Jeep at an especially accelerated pace, heedless of the ruts in the dirt road. The rousing navigation didn't seem to faze his buddy, either. The lighter-skinned man_—_whose name sounded something like Car Faint Say_—_kept turning in the seat with a wide smile, entirely unaffected by the constant jarring of the relentless terrain.

After an especially jarring bump, Fenyang suddenly turned his attention from the road, pointing ahead as he began conversing animatedly with his co-navigator. Their language sounded peculiar, jilted, yet curiously comforting to Xander's untrained ear, and he found himself smiling for the first time in a long time. Fenyang glanced in his rearview mirror to catch Xander's eye, and though it wasn't visible in the small bit of reflective glass, Xander knew the driver was smiling, too, from the sparkle in the man's dark pupils. Fenyang gestured ahead of him again with the hand not actively engaged in steering.

A small village of straw huts slowly mushroomed into view, and Xander watched as a group of half-naked kids ran to and fro, crossing the road leading up to it, shouting and waving excitedly at the Jeep drawing near.

"This is our stop, my friend." Fenyang spoke warmly, sparing a quick but friendly wave out the open window as the vehicle passed the youngsters. "You'll find the shaman there, and a tribe that will be kind, give you rest and food and water. He is a good man, my friend, and he will help you to find the prize you have come here looking for."

Xander nodded but remained silent, partly from the numbness in his heart and partly because he feared an open mouth and an unexpected rut in the road put him at risk of biting his tongue clean off. He braced himself, feet wide and hands splayed against the seat in front of him, enduring the last hundred or so more feet until he reached the small village, the straw huts, and the shaman who he hoped would help him locate an impossible demon.


	4. Is This a Dagger Which I See Before Me?

**Chapter Three: Is This a Dagger Which I See Before Me?**

Buffy tightened the drawstring on her hoodie and shoved her hands into its kangaroo pocket as she stepped through the entrance to West Park Cemetery. The wind had a chillier bite to it—this season stuff still felt odd after a childhood spent in always-summer southern California—and the weather seemed to heighten the eeriness of walking through a graveyard at night.

The placard on the Ridge Road entrance was etched with gilded letters reading "BUILT IN 1900," and while the multitude of crumbling, old headstones surely attested to this age, Buffy knew it was by no means the oldest cemetery in the city. Cleveland's prime geographic location on the Erie Canal made it an early transportation hub of the Great Lakes area, and a handful of inactive graveyards bore markers dating back as far as the late 1790's and early 1800's.

Her primary focus, of course, was on those more recent residents under newly-turned dirt.

Of the several burial sites in Cleveland, West Park Cemetery, in particular, was her favorite to patrol. A walk through its vast, hundred-plus acres, filled with stones and flowers and plenty of memories, often felt like traversing a whole new city. Sunnydale's deceased had enjoyed a much smaller-scale repose—at most, the city's twelve cemeteries spanned a few dozen acres each—and there was always a view of town, regardless of where you stood. In West Park, surrounding Cleveland was only visible when you were butted up to the gates at the cemetery's perimeter...and even then, all you'd really see was factories, a small mobile home park, and trees. Lots and lots of trees, as far as the eye could see, and as tall.

Some nights, she'd sit against one of the thick trunks, gaze up into the stars and simply breathe in the peace and quiet. Soak it all up like a warm and fragrant bubble bath that made her fingers and toes all puffy and pruney.

This evening, the sky had remained blue for some time, night's dark curtain taking a bit longer to fall than usual. She'd spent several minutes winding around the trees at the edge of the forest, drawing in the pure and sweet air, letting nature absorb some of the sadness she expelled in the wake of every breath. The twilight sky was clear, stars just starting to peek out in that hour or so after things got quiet, before the creepy crawlies came out to play. If she stayed really still, tiny wild animals, not quite ready to succumb to hibernation, would creep closer to inspect the world around them. The crisp, almost-spicy scents wafting on the breeze told tales about the coming of fall.

It was hard to be so immersed in the sheer beauty of the universe and not have him there to share it with. Spike did so love nights like these.

The veil of darkness eventually descended, though, bringing her heavy heart and that sense of slayer with it. Buffy walked, her mind shrugging off the painful memories, her feet silent in the grass as she stepped from gravestone to gravestone in search of a marker bearing Alton Fisher's name.

The 30-something high-school-dropout-turned-fry-cook-extraordinaire had seen more of the inside of a jail cell than out—frankly, after a few months at the DMP, she understood the impetus behind his transition from fast food to felonies. His most recent bout with liberty had ended rather abruptly, three days before, when Alton's body was found in a downtown alleyway, a chunk torn out of his neck and his veins utterly devoid of life-affirming fluid.

The official statement had been wild animal attack, a clear sign that Cleveland, like Sunnydale, preferred the blind-eye-deaf-ear method of acknowledging things that went bump in the night. Buffy, of course, knew better.

Whether or not he'd fledge, however, she _didn't_ know, since a vampire bite didn't always a vampire make. The rising time of a newly-formed vampire differed from body to body. Some sprang up, fanged and frisky, the same night they were made. Others seemed to need another day or two baking in the ground before they were ready to pop. Buffy had never seen one stay under more than three days, though, and Fisher's grave had remained unperturbed during her last two patrols. If the dead dude was gonna vamp, she figured it was gonna be tonight.

A familiar epitaph on a nearby tombstone told her she was only a few yards from Alton's gravesite, so she stopped and crouched low in waiting about twenty feet from his resting place. Things were quiet for the space of about ten seconds, then she heard a subterrestrial moan and saw a large, dirty hand emerge from the black soil under Alton's place marker. The vampire had risen.

Buffy leapt over the two marble stones between her and Alton's newly turned visage, making quick work of pulling the man up and out, then jamming a stake deep into his left lung. Her movements, as usual, were robotic, the resulting grains of dust equally automatic and expected.

The vamp bitch that attacked her from behind, however, was not.

A slender, delicate arm—always _so_ much stronger than they looked—came up and around her chest, a wiry hand with nails the color of pomegranates wrapping around Buffy's chin and pulling it to the side.

"Mmm, you come to give Miss Dezzie a nummy treat?" The raspy female voice, sandpapered by a hundred or so too many cigarettes, sent tingles down Buffy's spine as the vamp sniffed at her neck. The cold body behind Buffy instantly tensed, and when next she spoke, the creature sounded breathier, her voice awash with hunger and arousal. "Mmmm. A nummy _slayer_ treat."

"Don't think so, bitch," Buffy retorted quietly, thrusting an elbow back into her assailant's stomach. The vampire released Buffy immediately, the force of the slayer's strike launching her more than eight feet. Her fangs collided with the edge of a tall gravestone as she hit the ground.

"Oh, I see how it's gonna be, you wanna play dirty. Izzat right?" Miss Dezzie's yellow eyes glowed as she pulled herself up the marble structure, the tip of her tongue seductively pressed against smiling—albeit slightly chipped—fangs. She marched in place a few times, a leer directed at Buffy, stringy black hair fluttering in dirty tangles as she warmed up her shoulders with a few solid shrugs. When the vampire suddenly crouched, she beckoned to the Slayer with a curled forefinger. "Bring it, cunt."

"Gladly." Buffy drew another stake from her sleeve and set her body on automatic, stretching through a series of repeated high kicks with one leg—_pow, pow, pow_, she thought with each thrust—and using the momentum of the last kick into the next. Buffy swung her foot smoothly into a roundhouse, dropped, crouched low and changed feet, extending the other leg to knock the female off balance. Vamp Ho never even had time to react.

Her opponent prone on the ground, Buffy pounced and straddled the vampire's chest, raising her arm above her head with the stake pointing downward, ready to strike. Without warning, the creature curled, fighting against the weight and strength of Buffy's legs, her fangs bared in a mouth open wide. An instant later, and before Buffy could defend herself, the bitch bit the inside of her knee. Bit hard, tearing out a chunk of meat as the vampire pulled the upper half of her undead self back down to the ground beneath.

Buffy screamed, the pain in her knee an agonizing, searing explosion. It was too dark to see the damage clearly, but she'd been there, done that enough to know it was probably pretty serious. Before shock could take hold, Buffy refocused and staked the vampiress, taking an evil pleasure in the terror that filled her red eyes as she dusted.

Through the resulting cloud, Buffy's butt slammed, the sudden, deep bend of her leg sending the pain in her knee into quadruple overdrive. She gritted her teeth as she drew her foot out from under her, straightened her leg and pulled her cell phone from her front pocket. Her eyes were fuzzy and her hands were weak—she'd clearly lost a lot of blood—and it took several seconds to swipe the device open and initiate the call she was trying to make.

Raising the phone to her ear, Buffy waited until Faith answered on the third ring. She was barely able to eke out the words "West Park Cemetery" before she passed out.

* * *

The traffic just outside of Rio de Janeiro made Willow's trip into the city a nightmare. A trip that would normally take 20 minutes took nearly two hours on the Linha Vermelha highway before the aeroporto came into view, and another hour before she'd pulled the tiny VW into the rental car return.

"Entrada e saída," she said aloud as she read the _entrance_ and _exit_ signs edging the parking lot. She rolled the R dramatically between her tongue and the roof of her mouth, having mentally flipped the Desi Arnaz switch in her brain.

In the weeks she'd spent in Brazil, Willow had mostly kept to the outskirts of civilization, avoiding excessive communication and the need to learn much Portuguese. She knew a few basic phrases and, of course, a handful of curse words, but since Kennedy had been fluent in a number of Latin languages—"Rich girl problems," she'd always said—they'd gotten by just fine. Now, as the redhead forfeited her tiny slice of the country, she regretted not having learned more. It was such a beautiful language.

The terminal was busy with travelers rushing to and fro, and Willow bravely joined the throng, hurrying through the check-in line and making her way to the gate. The TV screen over the waiting area confirmed an on-time arrival in Los Angeles. She phoned Fred to pass on the news.

"Willow! It's so nice to hear from ya," said Winifred Burkle, a subtle Southern twang giving her sweet voice a melodious lilt. "What time you gettin' in tomorrow?"

"Looks like it'll be on time, so around four, Freddie," Willow assured her. "Think you can maybe come? It'd be real groovy to see a familiar face, and I don't think I can take the big guy's Broody Bob act just yet."

Fred giggled. "Would you believe he's actually smiled a few times over the last coupla days? We got some pretty fancy digs now. You wouldn't believe it, but his office and his apartment have magically tinted windows. You should see him, just standin' there, starin' at the sun." Fred sighed like an adoring mother. "Oh, and he's got a bunch of shiny sports cars with all kinds of letters and numbers in the names. And, golly, Nina's been around, too. She really takes his mind off the broodiness."

Willow smiled. She couldn't help it; the scientist's elation was contagious. "Nina? Wait, who's Nina?"

"Oh, you haven't met her? We helped a while back. She's a werewolf. Lives in the suburbs with her sister and her niece but she stays with us a few nights a month when the moon's full. Real nice girl with a bit of a hankerin' for Mr. Tall, Dark and Despondent."

"Aw, that's sweet. I'm glad to hear he's still saving the pretty girls."

"Girls, guys...puppies. He's pretty much an equal-opportunity saver." Fred giggled again. "Aw, listen to me, goin' on and on without a care in the world. This call's gonna be murder on your cell phone bill. Yes, I can totally come getcha tomorrow, no worries! And I'll leave the big guy home!"

"Oh, I'm so glad," replied Willow. The airport intercom beeped, then a female voice announced in Portuguese, Spanish and accented English that boarding for the flight to LA was commencing. "Oh, well, they're calling my flight anyways, Freddie, so my cell phone bill's safe. I gotta go, but I'll see you tomorrow, 'kay?"

"Okay!" Fred said. "Bye, Willow. Have a safe trip. See ya tomorrow."

The line cut off with a click and Willow tossed the phone back into her carry-on. "Obrigada e adeus Brasil," _Thanks and goodbye, Brazil, _she translated in her head_, but there's no place like home._

* * *

"God, B, that was a close one, dontcha think?" Faith reached across the passenger seat as she spoke, securing the belt across Buffy's hips. As she pulled back, she inadvertently knocked the blonde's uninjured knee against the console, the movement jarring her hips and setting the injured one into painful throbs. Buffy moaned, her head lolling to one side with a deep grimace.

"Oh, fuck, I'm sorry." Faith reached for the lever under the passenger seat, lowering the back a few inches to let some of the weight off Buffy's lower half. Ensuring that all of the blonde slayer was inside the car, Faith pressed the door shut until she heard it click securely.

A deep breath suddenly seemed appropriate, and Faith drew it in slowly, held it. Took a second one before throwing a grateful glance to the sky, a quick bob of her head in silent _thanks_ to the Powers That Be for keeping an eye on her girl.

Then she hurried around the back of the car and opened the driver's side door, picking up the anxious rambling as if she'd never stopped talking. Faith's voice was naturally sultry. "I don't know, B. You really got lucky. Five minutes in a graveyard, all by yourself? I mean, c'mon. What would happened if I hadn't'a been so close by, huh? Somethin' woulda gotten a whiff of you, sittin' there looking positively edible. Woulda drained you dry, pretty little slayer, smellin' all tasty and shit up against that fucking tree."

Faith heard her voice getting shrill, her words running together, and felt her tears damming dangerously close to the edge, so she quieted for a second and inhaled deeply. "Why you gotta patrol on your own all the time? Always a loner, even though you got dozens o' chicks who'd _kill_ to tag alone." The blonde remained silent. "C'mon, B. You got more brains in your left tit."

Yeah, she was right...and deep down, Buffy knew she should be grateful Faith got to her when she had. The abrupt phone call had roused the brunette slayer on her night off. It had taken less than 30 seconds to grab the first set of keys she could find—"Let's thank fuck that Vi's Civic had gas," Faith had said with an eyeroll—and another five minutes to drive across town to Buffy.

In the meantime, the blonde had laid unconscious against the tree. For five minutes. In the dead of night. In a cemetery on the Hellmouth.

She'd also apparently remained motionless for the handful of minutes it took Faith to lift and carry her to the car, and had really only come around in just enough time to watch herself get stuffed, headfirst, into the small red compact. Subtle shifts in her body had indicated to Faith that Buffy had woken up, and the brown-haired slayer had immediately lapsed into anxious rambling.

"'S called a fucking death wish, Buffy. I'm pretty sure you got one."

And then, leaving the statement hanging in the air between them, Faith stopped talking.

For this, Buffy and her friend, Mr. Pounding-Out-Of-My-Temples-Headache, were infinitely thankful.

Faith stayed silent, too. Didn't, in fact, even so much as look in Buffy's direction during the rest of the trip back to their apartment building, and waited until she'd dragged Buffy up two flights of stairs, unlocked the blonde's apartment door, and then deposited her on her living room sofa before letting loose again.

"I mean, I get that you're upset." Faith counted her points on her fingers. "Your heart's broken, your best friends are gone, you lost your home, mom and baby sis aren't around. I get it, B, I really do. But fuck, your death wish is gonna put someone else in danger if you're not careful."

Faith's words evoked memories Buffy wasn't ready to address.

_Death is your_ art, he'd said._ You make it with your hands, day after day. That final gasp, that look of peace. And part of you is desperate to know_. _Every slayer has a death wish. Even you._

"I can handle myself," Buffy replied, her voice labored with a pain far deeper than the one in her knee. "It's not as if anything happened that hasn't happened before. The girls are getting hurt all the time. I mean, accidents-"

Buffy winced.

"Fuckin' A," she said, her efforts to untie her shoes interrupted by a sharp pain radiating from the bite. She breathed through the wave, waited it out, and it became more bearable after a few seconds. "Accidents happen, don't they? What was I supposed to do? That vamp whore snuck up on me while I was dusting a fledge. S'not as if they're wearing bells around their necks or anything."

"Would you listen to yourself? Seriously?" Faith shook her head. "You've been acting like this since we left Sunny D. Walking around with your head stuck up your ass, pouting around, just waitin' for something big n' mean to take a bite of you. And gimme a break. Fuck accidents, B. I know they happen, and yeah, they even happen to you. But you know that's not what I'm not talking about."

Buffy didn't reply. She knew. She just didn't care.

Rolling her eyes, Faith stood and took a few steps into the tiny kitchen, and though Buffy didn't watch, she could hear the brunette slayer rummaging around the tiny galley. Could hear her slamming drawers and cupboard doors, engaging the faucet. Heard the water hitting first the bottom of the basin, then the belly of a bowl or a pitcher. The sounds filled the otherwise emptiness of the room.

And through it all, Buffy remained silent.

Faith stared at her over the small expanse of counter. "You know the resting bitch face doesn't bother me, right? It's cool, ese. I've got more than enough words for us both."

The faucet suddenly went silent, and Faith returned to the living room, a bowl of water pressed between her palms, a stack of dish towels stuffed under an armpit and a bottle of whiskey under the other. She handed the liquor to Buffy. "Drink. I'm'a go get the first aid kit. Be right back."

Buffy nodded around a wince, a painful throb shooting sparks down her leg. She untwisted the bottle cap, threw back a long swig—_Bleeeech_, she wretched—and closed her eyes to focus on the familiar taste of the burning liquid creeping down her throat and into her belly. For a moment, she craved a cigarette and thought about asking Faith for one. She took another drink instead.

"So way I see it, B, you've flipped the switch." Faith returned, laid the first aid supplies on the coffee table and knelt at Buffy's feet. "There's no more of that low-down tickle left in you." Her knees were spread apart and she gyrated her hips suggestively, gesturing to her crotch before she spoke again. "No more fire in your panties...or behind your eyes for that matter."

She waited a beat for Buffy's reaction, still didn't get one, then went back to her work, dipping a cloth into the bowl of water. Faith wrung out the saturated bit of fabric and touched it to the edge of Buffy's wound. The blonde hissed when moist, piping hot fibers rubbed a little too vigorously on the open bite, but a third swallow of alcohol helped numb the sensations.

"Ooops, sorry." Faith blew on Buffy's knee for a few seconds to cool the burn. She made sure she held the blonde's eyes before continuing. "Look, I know you loved him. Like, really, _really_ loved him, with the kinda love that doesn't happen to everyone. That only happens once in a lifetime—or in your case, twice, you lucky bitch." She chuckled. "It's the kind that makes the rest of us total jelly babies."

Faith dipped the bloodied cloth in the bowl of water a few times, the clear liquid turning a deep, Kool-Aid red.

"I don't wanna get all twelve-steppy on you or anything, but do you 'member how we used to talk about slaying makin' ya hungry and horny?"

Buffy nodded her head twice, a small, slow movement, up and down, and lowered her eyes to the side so she looked at the arm of the chair opposite Faith, avoiding her gaze.

The brunette went on. "I'm not a genius or anything. I mean, I'm just an ex-con who didn't finish high school...not really with all the book-learnin' shit. But, well, I know it's not right to expect you to get all hot and bothered...y'know, all horny-like. But...well, B, do you even like it anymore? Are ya hungry? Angry? Does slaying make you feel _anything _anymore?"

Neither moved for several minutes. When Buffy next looked up at Faith, her eyes were filled with tears, and the tiny shake of her head, that little negatory twist from side-to-side, was nearly imperceptible.

"I didn't think so," Faith replied. "Babe, maybe it's time to take a breather. Take a rest. Y'know, refocus."

She reached for two more towels and laid them on either side of Buffy's knee, then grabbed the bottle of hydrogen peroxide and twisted the cap off, saying, "Hold still a minute. Might tickle a little." Then she poured a thin stream of the liquid on Buffy's knee. The two women stared, watching as the clear disinfectant bubbled and frothed, cleaning the lesion.

After a long while, Buffy's weak voice broke the silence, her face devoid of emotion. "Can't."

"Whassat? 'M I hurtin' you?"

"Unh-unh. Can't rest. Can't think."

Faith's shoulders lowered marginally, her body relaxing in sympathy as she closed her eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. When she opened them again, she turned back to the table and grabbed a suture needle, concentrating on threading a bit of silk through it, knotting the end. "Is that _can't_ or _won't_, B?" This time, she didn't bother waiting for an answer. "So, uh, yeah, this is probably gonna hurt. God, I hate stitches. Okay. You ready?"

Buffy threw back another shot of whiskey, clenched her teeth, gripped the arms of the chair and nodded. With the hand that wasn't holding the needle, Faith pinched Buffy's wound closed, pinching the skin together as she inserted the sharp point into one side and drew it through.

After a few stitched, Faith spoke again. "You're gonna have to force yourself t'deal with those hurts, Buff. You just gotta. Remember that time I offed that Finch dude?"

Buffy nodded again, memories of her first experiences with Faith serving as a welcome distraction to the thread cutting into the raw bite mark, rubbing in and against the meat of her leg muscle, drawing a bolt of hot fire out the other side.

"You told me that I could shut off all the emotions I wanted, shut down and stop feeling 'em altogether," Faith said, "but eventually, B...you told me that eventually they were gonna find a body and I was gonna haveta face shit. Same goes for you. You can shut 'em all down, turn 'em all off. But eventually you're gonna have to face shit. It's all gonna catch up with you."

Faith didn't speak again for a long time, concentrating instead on finishing the sutures, tying them off, disinfecting the wound a second, then a third time. She sopped up the spilled hydrogen peroxide, globbed a thick layer of Neosporin on a gauze pad, and placed it gently on Buffy's knee.

Then Faith just sat there, chewing on her lip. She looked up, caught Buffy's eye. "He's gone, B. Spike's gone."

Faith's words hung in the air for a few seconds and then fell, slicing into Buffy like barbs on a wire. As her sister slayer returned to her work, wrapping soft gauze around and around her injured leg, Buffy imagined the barbs wrapping tighter and tighter around her already-broken heart. Digging into the bloody muscle and constricting its flesh so it was all gory and oozing with viscera, threatening to burst out of her chest altogether.

The brunette pretended not to notice, instead ensuring the soft cotton was tight enough to secure the medicated pad but loose enough to give Buffy a modicum of range in the joint. She folded the cut end over itself, tucked it into the wrapped layers with her right hand, leaving her left hand free to caress Buffy's calf muscle. The soft touch evoked emotions in the blonde's chest that she'd forgotten she possessed, and the dam suddenly broke, her eyes overflowing. Buffy began weeping in earnest, silently shaking as the moisture fell like a deluge, the first in what seemed like eons.

Faith didn't speak for several minutes, just sat on the floor in front of her closest friend, rubbing her leg, allowing her to grieve. Finally, her soft voice broke the heavy silence. "It's okay to miss him, B, but he's gone. He's not comin' back. You just can't _live_ again until you've come to terms with it."

"I know." Buffy whispered. She felt empty, exhausted, and on a sigh, repeated, "I know."

Faith merely nodded and turned to gather up the supplies, crumpling the paper wrappers in the palm of her hand and twisting the caps back onto the hydrogen peroxide bottle and the tube of Neosporin. The three hand towels and the needle went into the bowl of water, a fourth mopped up the remaining spills. Then she stood, her work done, and turned to catch Buffy's eye.

An emotion-wrought conversation passed, silent between their gazes, and neither woman moved or looked away for several long seconds.

Faith spoke first. "You're gonna have to do it on your own, and in your own time, B. But I think you need to start doing it soon. You and I both know...he wouldn't want to see you like this."

Then she gathered everything up, walked into the kitchen and deposited the supplies on the small bit of counter, and walked out the front door without saying another word.

* * *

Three days later, Buffy's plane arrived at LAX, taxiing onto the tarmac and up against the gate a full ten minutes ahead of schedule. Buffy called Fred while she sat waiting to disembark—the friendly, mousy scientist was the only one from the LA group she'd told about the trip—and was assured a sign-bearing driver would be waiting by the baggage claim.

Buffy had packed light, a lesson she'd learned from her mother, consolidating a few days' worth of clothes and toiletries between a carry-on and the Coach handbag Mom had given her for her 18th birthday. She took her time getting off the plane, walked through the gate and into the terminal with her eyes averted, counting the individual tiles of carpet in time to the rhythm of her carry-on's wheels. Barely glancing up as she passed over the threshold of the escalator, she raised her pupils just high enough to scan the signs extended in front of a line of drivers near the U-shaped baggage belt. Nearly all of them were attired in dark sunglasses and the black and white suited uniform of a professional chauffeur.

All of them, that is, but the redhead holding the sign reading _B. SUMMERS_.

There stood Willow...dearest Willow, chewing nervously on her lip with eyes big as plates. The redhead didn't shout with glee, she didn't rush forward or swing her arms open and converge on her best friend like a pig to its trough. She simply stood there, the half of her mouth not clasped between her teeth upturned in a quiet Willow smile, making Buffy feel as if she was 15 years old again.

As far as kindred spirits go, Buffy's was instantly aware it had found home the moment she saw Willow. Her heart reached out to her bosom friend, and when their eyes met, Willow's smile stretched wider, with more surety. Deep within her chest, Buffy felt her broken heart leap at the familiar sparkle in Willow's eyes...only moments before Buffy's body collapsed and she burst into tears.


	5. Proceeding From the Heat-Oppressed Brain

**Chapter Four: Proceeding from the Heat-Oppressed Brain **

The children's roadside shouting roused the entire community, the common area filling faster than an open bar at a Harris family reunion. Straw huts emptied like clown cars, with waves of tribespeople laughing and shouting eagerly at one another, their hand gestures wildly animated, voices speaking in the same jilted dialect Xander's car mates had used.

From the backseat of the Jeep, he watched the crowd part. Bodies of every size were wrapped in vibrantly patterned fabrics and faded tank tops, soccer shorts and the kinds of cotton, button-up shirts his grandfather would've worn in 1982. Small children milled about in underwear and little else while older kids supervised, their chests emblazoned with Tommy Hilfiger logos, Spongebob, Mickey Mouse. It was a veritable sea of rich chocolate skin, bold geometric patterns, western pop culture and faded thrift store cast-offs.

As the vehicle drew to a stop, an elderly man emerged from the center-most hut, smiling as he squinted against the setting sun. The sleeves of his old Ramones t-shirt were cut off at the shoulder, exposing short, sinewy arms, the strings of his denim cutoffs dangling above knobby knees. He held in his left hand a long, wooden staff that was wrapped with feathers and beads, its tip extending a good two feet over his round, bald head. The man looked to be about 70, stood all of five feet tall and might've weighed a buck five at most...and one glance at him had Xander utterly transfixed.

The experience was uncannily familiar. After a near-decade at Buffy's side, he'd become accustomed to big-time presence wrapped up in little people packages.

Fenyang led Xander through the throngs of excited people, a tremor of power shimmering almost visibly in the air. Greeting the holy man with the familiarity of a close friend, the driver clapped him on the back of the neck and drew him into an embrace before he straightened and turned a smiling face back in Xander's direction.

"This is our shaman, my American friend," came the accented introduction. "A man of peace and knowledge. He will surely lead you to truth."

"Um...thanks," Xander replied simply. He extended his hand before he had a chance to question the gesture. Would the elder tribesman understand the custom and reach out to clasp in return greeting? Would it be more appropriate to kneel and kiss his hand? Bow? Break into the tribal dance sequence from _Coming to America?_

"Welcome, wanderer. Welcome." The warmth of a bony hand and the shaman's rich baritone broke through Xander's worries, and after weeks of heavy accents and oft-broken English, it was somewhat jarring to hear the shaman's tongue form the hard _R_ of a perfect American-English pronunciation. "Come, please, come in and sit with me. I've been expecting you, Alexander Harris." The shaman stood as high as Xander's chest, his mouth stretched in a wide smile—D_amn, if he doesn't look like a little African Yoda_, Xander thought—and held the door open to his younger guest. "Well, what are you waiting for? Come in, come in," said the older man. "Lay your belongings there, boy, don't dally. You'll let the cold air out."

Xander hurried to discard the few bags he carried, then walked across the expanse of the open space to settle himself near the stone fireplace. He sat atop a cushion patterned in deep reds and bright oranges. The rug under his feet was soft and padded, the fire was warm, comfortably so, and the air inside the hut was pleasantly cool.

Wait a minute. Pleasantly cool? He would've expected sweltering heat, actually...given the sharp blaze of the sun outside and the crackle of the hearth within. _You'll let the cold out? What the-?_ No, the air inside the hut was crisp, clean. Hmmm,_ magical AC. Nifty._

"Bet it costs a fortune to cool your little hideaway out here. You know, what with it being so far outside of the city and all." Xander blurted out, then immediately switched gears. "So, um, exactly how does this work?"

"How does what work? The cold air?"

"No," Xander chuckled. "How does...well, for one, how's it possible that I've traveled thousands of miles to the middle of Nowheresville to find a mystical shaman the age of my Aunt Esther Mae who has not only been expecting my arrival, but who lives in a magically air conditioned straw hut and talks better English than me?"

"_Speaks_ better English than _I_," the old man retorted, a merry twinkle lighting his eyes as he rolled them in mock disgust. The gesture was so Giles-like it hurt Xander's chest.

"Mm-hmm. That, too."

Deceptively frail-looking shoulders shrugged. "Eh, parlor tricks, all of them. A twist on the elements to release the heat back outside, nothing your Red Witch couldn't've done had she wanted."

_Red Witch? He knows Willow?_

"As for the language," the shaman went on, "you only hear me in the tongue you know, even though the one I use is the same as the people outside." The old man's soft smile turned somber as his body drooped, and he seemed to consider the weight of his next words very carefully. "I've known you were coming for quite a while. I suppose I've had plenty of time to prepare. Like I said, I've waited for you, Alexander-"

"Xander," the younger said automatically, peering up apologetically once he realized he'd interrupted.

"Xander, then," the shaman smiled, nodded. "I've waited and watched as you traveled many miles with a broken heart, seeking the aid of a demon. I know all about your fight with the First Evil, and know what you've lost. Your heart. Your friends." The old man fell silent for another moment, his head cocked, contemplating. "I also know you wish it had been you."

Xander's one eye went wide, but he didn't speak.

"My intention is not to frighten you, Xander, nor is it to make your already heavy burden that much heavier...though I regret now that I've done both. I only wish to convince you of my sincerity. To show you that you can trust me to guide you in what's to come."

"What do you mean, what's to come?" It was too much for Xander to process, too fast. "I came here looking for directions to my next stop...to see if you could tell me where this doggone demon lives."

"You've already made it to your destination, son." The old man's eyes locked with Xander's. "The world is in danger and you are its only hope."

* * *

Buffy's sudden collapse elicited a group of very concerned people, and it took Willow several minutes to wave them far enough away to pull the blonde up from the floor and over to a nearby bench. After much back rubbing and whispered assurances, she finally encouraged the Slayer to the elevators and out to the car.

Willow started the ignition but didn't put the vehicle into reverse, instead just sat there, quietly staring at her fisted hands on the steering wheel as her best friend wept quietly beside her. Minutes passed and the tears didn't abate. When Willow finally spoke, her voice was hoarse, raw with emotion.

"Some nights, I thought I'd die. I _wanted_ to." Willow reached across, drew Buffy's hand into hers. Lifted it, pressed a small kiss and then her cheek into the blonde's slender palm. "Not having her there...not having Tara there?" Willow lowered Buffy's hand, rolling her eyes in an attempt to staunch the oncoming tears. "It was like the half of me that made sense just...disappeared."

For several minutes, each woman was lost in a maze of memories, thinking of loved ones taken far too soon, of hearts never meant to stay filled. Finally, Willow rubbed her eyes and gathered her wits, put the car in reverse and exited the parking garage.

"So," she sighed a few minutes later. "You wanna go back to dubbya-and-aitch or did you have something else in mind?" Buffy's sobs had abated to sniffles, and Willow handed her friend a tissue from a box Freddie kept in the backseat.

"A world of no to Wolfram and Hart," replied Buffy breathily, mopping her eyes and nose with the balled up Kleenex. "God, Will, what is he thinking? Wolfram and Hart? I mean, Spike once told me that..." She broke off, his name popping out unexpectedly, a sharp reminder of an ever-agonized heart. Her voice was much quieter, weaker, when she spoke again. "No...no, Willow. I don't want to go to Wolfram and Hart."

Since no other suggestions were offered and they weren't in a hurry to get anywhere, Willow stayed on I-5 and pulled into the slow lane, bypassing the exit for Angel's office as the vehicle headed north.

Several silent minutes passed before Buffy spoke again. "Have you been back to see what's left of Sunnydale yet?"

* * *

Xander stared at the old shaman, mouth agape, eye wide. The apocalypse loomed and he was the only hope. Which only meant one thing: the world, as Giles had so frequently and succinctly put it, was _fucking doomed_.

World endage and the name "Alexander Harris" went together like...like drywall and a busted pipe. Like olives and peanut butter. Howard Stern and Mother Angelica. Totally unmixy. Other people did the thinking and the leading and the championing. He was better suited as the backing muscle. Did the holy dude really just say he, Xander Harris, was responsible for saving the world? Surely not.

"Let's review, if we could," Xander said, holding out his hand so he could count each statement on his fingers. "We've covered your impeccable mastery of the English language. You've explained the hocus pocus behind your hut's upgraded cooling system. You say you watched the fall of Sunnydale, that you know about Anya and the First, right?"

He took a deep breath. When he continued, his voice was panicked. "But me being the chosen one? Yeah, well, that's _so_ not my role. I mean...while I'd love to play Luke to your Yoda and be all one with the Force...wrong guy, you've got." Xander had been backup for more crazy, fucked-up situations than he wanted to count, but he'd never played in the quarterback position. He preferred to be an offensive lineman. Possibly kicker. Wasn't at all averse to swinging pom-poms from the sidelines.

The shaman smiled. "_Fear is the path to the Dark Side,_ Xander. _Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering._"

"Okay, but me saving the world? That's bigger than I can do on my own."

"_Size matters not...look at me,_" continued the shaman. "_Judge me by size, do you?_"

That one elicited a grin from Xander, and when the younger man spoke again, his voice was filled with admiration. "Yoda fan, are you?"

"Wise man, he is," the shaman replied cheekily, nodding his head stiffly to the side like the Grand Jedi Master himself. "But he's also right. Your fear and anger _will_ turn to hate, and then, before you can blink," he snapped his thumb and forefinger, "all that hatred will turn to evil, turning you and the rest of the world into blackness."

Xander waved his hands, palms out, in front of his chest in denial. "Hold up. The whole black veins and dark, googly eye thing? Wasn't my gig. Wrong guy. Wrong gender, in fact." He pointed to his own chest. "This guy? No super powers here."

"Perhaps it's _you_ who should hold up, because it's _you_ who misunderstands. I'm not saying that your fear and anger will turn to hatred and evil because _you _choose to make it so. I'm telling you that the choice will not be yours. It will happen whether you want it to or not."

When Xander moved to interrupt again, the shaman held up a hand to quiet him.

"Please, let me explain. We have enough time for a story. Tea?" The old man offered, then rose and made his way to the fire, where he stooped to ladle a few spoonfuls of amber liquid into a mug from a kettle suspended over the flames. At Xander's nod, he repeated the motions over a second cup, which he handed to Xander before settling himself before the fire. The shaman took a sip from his mug before he continued speaking.

"Many, many years ago...many more than you could _ever_ count in your head, there was a land called Nizami that was..._is_ the most magnificent, the most magical in all the history that ever was. Every corner of the land teemed with colorful life, with people and animals and trees and flowers of every type in creation."

The shaman's eyes were gleaming wistfully.

"The king and the queen of Nizami—King Alisher and Queen Navoi were their names—were fair monarchs and powerful sorcerers. The people thrived under their rule."

The shaman went quiet and looked over as Xander sipped his own tea. The drink was hot, though not enough to burn his tongue, and it tasted of an earthier blend than Giles typically served. There were hints of Persian or Indian spices, like nutmeg and cardamom and cinnamon and something equally pleasant. It was sweetened to perfection.

The old man smiled, pleased, before turning to face the fire again. "Twin baby girls, delicate and perfect, were born to Alisher and Navoi. The firstborn had the fairest of skin, her hair the color of the sun, her eyes blue as the sky. The second baby was just as beautiful, but in reverse, with olive skin, charcoal eyes and hair dark as night.

"As the infants grew, it became obvious they were as different in temperament as they were in complexion. Where the fair child was obedient, her darker sister was headstrong. The first was demure and polite, the other passionate and outgoing. It was also evident fairly early that the girls had inherited their parents' powers of sorcery." The shaman chuckled, a sound that seemed to echo from deep within his chest. "As toddlers, a bad dream set every dog within a three mile radius to barking. The smallest of dinnertime temper tantrums caused minor flooding. They really kept their mom and dad hopping."

The old man swirled his tea for a moment. "The fair twin's powers were born of the stars and the skies, from the same source as their mother's ethereal, fairy-like magicks. She could read minds and foretell the future, held the essence of the heavens' light and peace behind her eyes. This daughter could breed positivity in even the darkest of sorrows. She lit up a room with sheer happiness the moment she walked in.

"The younger, darker-skinned twin's magicks were more like their father's, derived from the earth and based on the elements. Her powers were more of the conjuring sort, which meant she could manipulate water and fire, air, earth, ice. A change in her moods affected the weather and propagated feelings of passion, aggression and daring, other emotions borne of a darker nature. She could push a tidal wave of anxiety and disquiet over a crowd with a single breath.

"Individually, their powers were diametrically opposed, strong. And in terms of the younger twin, very, very dangerous. Together, though, there was a balance, as one set of powers played the yin to the other's yang. Together, they also grew exponentially stronger, surpassing any power ever known to man, god or beast.

"The twins loved one another profoundly, even in the face of their extreme differences. The older of the two was shy and preferred home, where she stayed close to her mother, growing in charm, chastity and refinement. The younger twin, while also breathtakingly beautiful, was the exact opposite in nature. She had such zeal for life and was known to sneak out of the castle to raise hell all over town, most often with the son of the king's healer in tow."

Another deep-chested chuckle from the shaman drew a wide grin over Xander's face. The old man's expression was fondly wistful, as if he knew the sisters of whom he spoke, was remembering them, even though they'd lived hundreds—if not thousands—of years before. Xander felt like a little boy, criss-cross-applesauced during Story Time at the library.

"The younger twin and the healer's son...their joined magicks were but a fraction of what the twins could produce together, but they were still a force to be reckoned with. And the pranks they pulled!" Dramatically, the shaman slapped his hand over his heart and rolled his eyes. "If one of the local farmers was rumored to have swindled a worker, they'd conjure his livestock behind another man's fence. A shop owner with overpriced wares might wake to find his cart sorcelled to the lake across town." He shook his head with a smirk. "They once grew a tree with a trunk the size of a Buick mere inches from a school bully's front door. Their capers weren't at all malicious, but people never knew what to expect next.

"Over the years, the two found themselves to be well-matched, and fell deeply in love. But while the king had been complacent about the merry-making, he didn't see the healer's son as appropriately _marry_-making. The boy was beneath her, not worthy of her hand, and His Majesty absolutely _forbid_ the relationship, deeming it an illicit—and illegal—love affair. The dark twin was grief-stricken, unwilling to part from her lover, and fought her father for months to no avail. She tried to denounce her title, escaped the palace walls as often as she could."

The shaman took a deep breath. "When the king found out, he put her under a spell that prevented her from leaving the castle while he was home. He further confined her to the wing she and her sister called their own while he was away from the castle. He went out of his way to make her suffer. The healer and his son, he banished to the outskirts of town, where he provided them with a home, a bountiful garden, and a comfortable life.

"Faced with what was sure to be a loveless future, the dark twin went _mad,_ letting loose the control over her powers so sadness and anger spread across the land. Wives began turning on husbands, children on their parents. Rivers and lakes dried up overnight, crops wilted, livestock dropped, dead, to the ground. The fair twin begged her sister to stop, beseeched her to join her in a ritual to cleanse the land and bring peace once again. Her words fell on deaf ears and the dark twin fell deeper and deeper into the black of vengeance, the havoc never ceasing as her anger flowed from the confines of the castle.

"After weeks of drought and famine, and in the hopes of forcing her hand, the king finally threatened to kill the healer's son if his daughter continued to withhold control over her magicks. This had the opposite effect he'd intended, only serving to anger her even further, and her outrage caused an earthquake that swallowed nearly a third of the town's population. The king had no choice but to follow through with his original threat."

"You mean..." Xander trailed his thumbnail in demonstration across the hollow of his neck.

The shaman nodded. "The king chose a most gruesome death, knowing the dark twin watched helplessly from the tower of the castle as her lover died, unable to leave the boundaries of the hex." The old man let the gravity of his words, and the silence that followed them, lay heavy in the room. "The instant the boy's last breath left his body," he finally went on, "the tower exploded, the dark twin's charged body rising from its wreckage. Her magicks, backed by all of her vengeance, easily broke through the king's magical barriers, and she was _terrifying_. With a sweep of her arm, molten lava erupted from the earth, covering the land and killing everything and everyone in its wake.

"To prolong his suffering, and in return for making _her_ watch only moments before, she placed a petrification spell over her father that forced him to watch, frozen, as his kingdom turned to ash. He was no match for her sorcery, couldn't move to save his own life or spare the lives of his subjects. He could only stand there, like glass, as the world around him burned.

"When the river of molen rock finally met his feet, he was able to break far enough into her spell to heave one, last, powerful curse in her direction. Upon his dying breath, King Alisher damned his daughter to an incorporeal eternity roaming the bowels of every wasteland, feeding from the isolation and the destruction and the anguish, touching no one. Not another human being. Ever again. He perished with her laughter in his ears...and then, the kingdom of Nizami was no more."

"Wow," said Xander breathily. "I…wow."

"Mm-hmm," the old man agreed. "The royal family was never heard from again, though there are some accounts, in more than one dimension, in which the dark twin has been sighted on a post-war battlefield or in the aftermath of a natural disaster. She wanders, consuming the leftover torment and suffering, purifying and cleansing auras surrounding the tragedy, then disappearing until the next. One right after another, for eons and eons. It's always been like this."

The holy man fell silent, his shoulders drawn and his eyes averted to the ground near the fire, making Xander wonder where _he_ came in.

"Your place in this story draws near, Xander," was the old man's reply, as if the thought had been spoken aloud. "A little over a century ago, a prophecy was discovered, believed to be the foretelling of the Hellmouth's fall and of the return of-" He cleared his throat. "..._love over tragedy_ in the wasted Land of the Sun."

"Love over tragedy?" Xander repeated. "Land of the...wait, in Sunnydale?"

The shaman nodded and said, "H_oki o nga i aroha fakamamahi._ Only...the translation isn't _the return of love over tragedy_. It's more accurately _the return of lovers tragic_. In other words, the return of the dark twin and the healer's son. The tragic lovers."

Xander nodded, all at once meditative.

"And there's more," said the shaman.

"Naturally."

"There's a bit about _toa mamae te whenua o..._or the_ land's anguished champion_. And _Ka Purea Nui_. The Great Purge."

"Doesn't _that_ sound like fun! Anguish and champions and purge, oh my!" Xander flashed jazz hands, his eyes wide with mock exuberance. Sotto voce, he added, "What's a Great Purge?"

"Depends on who you ask. Most scholars say it's another name for the king's original curse. A purge of his daughter's evil influence over his kingdom. Her curse to purgethe anguish left behind after every tragedy. But then, you didn't ask _many._ You asked _me_. And what do _I_ say? _This_ purge, the one from the prophecy, has a far, far greater range and _infinitely_ greater import." The shaman paused for effect. "The Great Purge hasn't already happened, and it isn't happening right now. It's still coming. Very, very soon. And it's going to, quite literally, purge all that is good in the world. _All _that is good, Xander. As in, the coming of hell on earth, the tragic lovers, Layla and Majnun. And they're taking their place at the helm of hell."

"Because everyone else has been so successful, right? The First, the Master, Glory...they've all tried to take over the world and we've kicked their collection asses. Why are we not calling Buffy?"

The holy man stayed silent for a few seconds in somber appreciation, then smiled. "That's where you come in."

"Yeah?"

Another nod. "How long's it been since you checked your voicemails?"

"Uh...not gonna lie, my man, the award for most random question goes to _you_."

The shaman smirked then rose to his feet. "Why don't you give those phone messages a listen while I clean up these cups. I'm pretty confident you'll figure out what you're looking for when you hear it."

Baffled, Xander said, "Ohhh-kay...'cept for one problem. Phone's dead. Been that way a day or two. And I can't find the damn adapter to fit the plugs you guys have here, so I can't charge the stupid thing."

"Oh, Xander. Much to learn, you still have," came the reply as the holy man walked across the hut and unloaded the dishes into the belly of a wash basin. He reached out and snapped his finger toward the bags by the door. "Check again."

Xander rifled through his duffel and, sure enough, found a full charge on the phone's display. There was also an unexpectedly clear signal when he dialed his voicemail inbox. Xander skipped the first dozen or so recordings—received earlier in his travels—and stopped when the timestamp recited the date from the day before. It was a message from Willow.

He smiled when the sound of her bubbly, oh-so-Willow voice filled his ear. His best friend's _it's-not-you-not-me-but-trouble-that-is-Buffy_ nonsense didn't seem immediately pertinent so he skipped to the next, reminding himself to listen again later when he had time to puzzle out Willow's incoherent babbling.

He hadn't realized how much he _missed _her incoherent babbling.

Ten seconds into the only remaining message—also from Willow, this one recorded less twenty minutes before, as the shaman predicted—his heart dropped to the floor.

"Hey, Xan, it's Will." Her voice was backed by the steady drone of a vehicle moving at high speeds, telling him she'd called while she was driving. "Guess you're still not answering. So listen, I'm in LA with Buffy. Although I guess it's not really LA anymore, 'cuz we're on our way to Sunnydale. We were just talking about you, and, well...yeah, so...anyways, we miss you, big buddy. Love you. Call me soon, 'kay?" And she hung up.

He missed her. Like, _really_ missed her. And-

_Wait a minute. Willow and Buffy are on their way to Sunnydale?_

Xander flipped his phone shut and sat staring at the fire, two and two slowly adding up to four in his pounding head.

The return of the lovers tragic and the Great Purge, both fueled by the anguish of the champion of Sunnydale.

Sunnydale, where Willow and Buffy, both champions of the pretty-darn-anguished sort, were now headed.

This was _so_ not of the good.

Xander jerked upright to face the old man, and in a voice that was a little too loud but not nearly as panicked as he felt, he asked, "Okay, Mr. I'll-Guide-You-Through-What-Comes-Next. So, uh...what comes next?"

* * *

In the Sunnydale breeze, the succulent scent of despair hung low, thick like dark chocolate syrup and twice as rich. It was laced with sadness and loss, anger and heartache, bits of terror and loneliness peeking through here and there. All of these beautiful flavors and nuances, mixed up in a big vat like twelve bean soup left to simmer on the back burner of southern California.

Its perfume whet Layla's appetite and made her belly rumble.

Outside the 10 mile radius of a crater once the active mouth of Hell, several homes and businesses remained. Granted, there wasn't much to them but puke-colored siding, overgrown yards, looted store fronts, and car-shaped skeletons. The buildings were at least inhabitable, if not overly creature comfortable, and were likely the reason Sunnydale's poorest and most destitute—the ones with nowhere else to go—had survived this long.

Ice ages, sea levels rising, climate change, the extinction of an uncountable number of animals and plant life...these humans survived _everything_. Layla had to respect, if not be overly annoyed by, their tenacity.

"Are you deaf?" A sudden, deep-throated snarl spewed from a dimly lit porch up ahead. "I said out! Out, y' old bat! Ain't puttin' up with this shit a minute more."

The shout carried on a gust of wind, and from thirty feet to the south, Layla could vividly taste the contempt in the man's breath. She didn't move, watched as the silhouette of a tiny old woman came rushing out of the abandoned home, a thin sack of bones hobbling on weak legs, hunched over a crooked cane. The screen door slammed behind her, leaving the old woman cast in moonlight on an otherwise darkened sidewalk.

Easy prey.

The elderly woman flinched when she saw Layla slinking out of the shadows, pale knuckles going even paler around the handle of her cane, her body stiffening. The instant their eyes met, though, her whole decrepit countenance relaxed. The old woman just stood there, gazing steadily back at Layla, a look of rapture on her withered, wrinkled face. The only visible movement was the slow widening of her tired, aged eyes, until suddenly the old woman's frail body began to shrink inward, the meat and bones under paper-thin skin dissolving unnaturally fast...like one of those time lapse videos where maggots devoured the head of a dead fox.

In no time at all, the old crone was nothing but fossilized dust. Layla was on the prowl for the next helping before the last particle hit the ground.

She had to prepare. She'd wandered alone for an eternity, through a million million generations, more despondent and anguished than the desolation upon which she fed. The prophecy had been a light at the end of an infinitely long and dark tunnel, and now, a century later, she'd finally found the prophesied wasteland.

It wouldn't be long. Her beloved Majnun would return soon, and they would make this world theirs.


	6. A Dagger of the Mind, A False Creation

**Chapter Five: A Dagger of the Mind, A False Creation**

There are certain questions that, when asked, always glean the same, predictable results. Ask a teacher how to spell a word, for example, and you can bet the farm that you'll get told to _go look it up_. Inquire about a woman's due date before you've ascertained the sex of the baby, her birthing plan and the list of possible baby names, and you can be sure she's not pregnant. Suggest that a houseful of slayers "look before they sit" instead of simply agreeing to put the seat down, and you're guaranteed a gaggle of irritated females. And a black eye.

That last one, incidentally, also applies when suggesting they enter MMA championships, participate in Jello wrestling competitions or launch the website...even if one can argue that there's _oodles_ of money to be made in all three instances.

As of this afternoon, Xander officially had another predictable question-and-answer to add to the growing list: When you ask a shaman to play tour guide through whatever's to come, you're gonna end up on a vision quest.

The old man had no sooner nodded his agreement to the request than was rifling through a leather pouch over the fireplace and inviting Xander to join him again in front of the flames. When he joined him at the hearth, and on the rug between them, the shaman set a drum, a book of matches, and a small pipe with a bit of something green packed into its bowl.

Now, as far as Xander could remember, Buffy's jaunt into VQ Central—that's _Vision Quest Central_ for the uninitiated—had involved the Hokey Pokey, a gourd, a constitutional with a mountain lion, and a few quick Z's before the good stuff really got underway. As it turns out, you don't need to shake a pumpkin or take a nap or dance the Watusi to get there.

A little ganja will set a merry astral body on its way _just_ as quickly.

"Ah, yes. Good ol' _cannabis sativas,_" Xander announced appreciatively after smelling the substance in the pipe. "Always a fun addition to any fantastic voyage. And while I'm rarely one to deny some friendly doobage...well, I still need to call Willow and...uh, aren't we under a bit of a time crunch?"

"Don't take me for a fool, boy, I know there's no time to waste," was the old man's response. "And put your phone away. It's dead and you've no time left to call the witch anyways."

Xander looked down at the phone still in his hands, a press on the power button and a glance at its display confirming that the battery had, indeed, depleted once again. He slipped it into his pocket.

The shaman held out his hand, palm down over the filled pipe, closed his eyes and began chanting.

_Dairandaidrandidai  
Hasto cielo mantchini  
Chinchi chinchi medicoy  
Dairandaidrandidai_

When he opened his eyes again, he picked up the pipe and offered it to Xander, who took it without a word. A few seconds were spent examining the smoking instrument—carved in the shape of a wolf, the ivory bowl tapered into a mahogany wood stem, all of it polished to a high gleam—then he drew the mouthpiece to his lips, lit the herb and inhaled. His first pull left him hacking up a lung, but Xander's second didn't scream _newbie stoner_ nearly as much.

When he lowered the piece to his lap, the old man reached for it, a mouthful of cloudy smoke pouring out from between his wrinkled lips a few seconds later. Several minutes were spent thusly, passing the pipe back and forth, lighting and inhaling and blowing out pumes of fragrant smoke. By the time the bowl was spent, the inside of the straw hut was filled with thick, white clouds.

"I'm going to play the drum and chant, Xander." The holy man's voice was low and even and soothing. Hypnotic. "You just sit back and let the sounds draw you into a trance."

Doing as instructed, Xander lay back with his eyes closed, beginning to feel as if his head was floating from his shoulders. A vibration hummed through his body, raising the hairs on his arms and legs, and Xander's ears were suddenly filled with a steady _waa-waa-waa_ sound, like the teacher from Charlie Brown. Instead of the expected cotton mouth, a sweet, cherry flavor flooded his tongue and coated his teeth. This was unlike any high he'd ever felt.

"Relax into the chant, Xander." The shaman's voice intoned the reminder from an unexpected distance. Wasn't he a few feet away? He sounded so far away...at the end of a long tunnel...didn't he? "Don't be afraid to let go, Xander. Just let go. I promise, you'll find me on the other side."

The chanting began again.

_Dairandaidrandidai  
Hasto cielo mantchini  
Chinchi chinchi medicoy  
Dairandaidrandidai_

The words got further and further away, and this time, the shaman was accompanied by the regular pounding of a drum, its deep, resonant sound reverberating in Xander's chest like a second heartbeat. He concentrated on the rhythm, relaxed even further against the cushions, allowing his arms and legs to go boneless and his breathing to slow, deepen. He was completely still, save for a few twitches of his jaw and the tiny flutter of an eyelid, when all of a sudden, his body jerked with that falling, top-of-the-roller-coaster feeling you get just before falling asleep. For a second or two afterwards, his forehead went on a drunken forward spiral. Then he simply just...drifted.

* * *

Buffy had forgotten how much she missed Willow. Though they'd managed to keep a fairly regular stream of phone calls running between Cleveland and Brazil, there was nothing like being able to reach out and touch her, live and in person. To hear that low, off-key hum that always started when the radio played Alanis Morisette or the Cranberries or Sarah McLachlan. To sit by her side and smell her shampoo and the notes of that familiar perfume, in all of its lavender and plumeria and figgy sweetness. To simply bask in the aura that was..._Willow_.

"I miss you, Will," the blonde said quietly, though she didn't look up to meet her best friend's eyes. "I'm a little lost." She let out a breathy snicker as she glanced up and out the side window. "Who am I trying to fool? I'm _a lot_ lost. Just in case you couldn't tell by my sterling display of total spaz."

"Aw, c'mon. I'd think you're entitled to a little wig every now and then, Buffy," Willow replied. "Don't be so hard on yourself. It's been a hard year."

This time Buffy's chuckle was laced with cynicism. "It's been a hard _decade_, Wills."

"You know, I try to remind myself that there was a lot of good in it, too. Lots of stuff that was smiley and happy and-and big-laugh-making..." said the redhead, though she nodded in agreement nonetheless. "I also know it's a slippery slope into the apocalyptically evil vengeance, Buff. And I know it feels like the universe is out to get you, and that you can't figure out what the hell you did to deserve it." She drove for a mile or two before speaking again. "I've been there. Which means I'm qualified to say it helps to talk about it, if you wanna."

Buffy leaned her forehead against the window, welcoming the warmth of the late August sunshine filtering through the plate glass, deciding she didn't really miss seasons at all. "I understand why you did it," she finally murmured.

"Did what?"

"Warren."

"Oh, goddess, not exactly one of my finer moments, Buffy. In fact, I might even agree to a go with that flashy-memory-messer-upper thing from Men in Black. You know the one, right? With the sunglasses and the whole _I make this look good_?" Willow scrunched her face into a sultry expression and threw her voice a decibel lower in imitation of Will Smith.

Buffy gave a weak smile. "Yeah, but that's not what I meant. I mean I can see why you did it." Buffy finally looked her friend. "I didn't understand it then. Maybe I didn't want to. But I get it now."

Willow didn't speak, but her body relaxed visibly as she stared out at the stretch of highway in front of her...as if it was a comfort to be understood after all of this time.

"And the thing is, Will, even knowing how you feel about what you did...knowing what you went through to come back from the dark...well, I mean, if I had someone to blame, you know, something to actually go after? I'd do it, too. I would. Because it would-"

"It would help you forget how bad it hurts, right?" Willow interrupted, and Buffy gave a small nod. "I know. Trust me. I know. But it doesn't. It doesn't work like that at all. The ones you hurt, Buffy...people like us feel the regret way deep down inside. I know you. You've always felt that way. I do, too. It's never as simple as 'venge and forget.' We're just not wired that way."

"I don't know, Will. That might've been true once, but I just don't know if it is any more." She drew her knees far enough apart to get a peek at the bite wound, no longer gaping or oozing pus, but soft and pink, almost completely healed. A scarred reminder of just how far she was from _okay_. "It's just...I think my wiring's all jumbled up. All I do, all the time, is think about _him._ And how hard it is to just keeping going without him. And all the things I could've done differently. And the times I could've said something or done something to accept him," she whispered. "And how, when I finally did, it was too late."

"Buffy, how many times were you at each other's throats? Do I _need_ to remind you how you guys spent, like, _three years_ trying to kill each other? I mean, c'mon...you've _got_ to remember everything that came before. It wasn't always love and puppies, Buff. There were reasons it took you so long to let him in." Willow reminded her.

"And how many more times after _that_ did he try to prove how he felt? Say what you want, Will. I was a total shit to him. And then he died for me...for everyone," she corrected. "And now, all that's left of him is a pile of dust back there in that crater." Her voice was growing more and more desperate as the words tumbled out, and the tears started flowing harder than before. "He's gone, Will. I had to leave him back there. I left him! I left him there, all by himself"

"I know," Willow whispered. "I had to leave Tara behind, too." The redhead sniffled and wiped her eye, the memory of running her finger over the letters on Tara's gravestone fresh in her mind. "And yeah, you're right, Buffy. She's gone. He's gone. I get it, I do. But we can't let their sacrifice go to waste. There's a reason we both ended up right here, right now." Well, that and a little Cleveland-bound astral projection, but she wasn't one to kiss and tell. "How's about we make it count. We'll go home, say our goodbyes to Spike and Tara, and then we'll get back to kicking evil's butt and helping people, 'kay? Whaddaya say?"

"'Kay."

With a nod, Willow reached across and lay her hand, palm up, on Buffy's knee. She smiled when the blonde laced her own fingers through, in true _Thelma and Louise_ fashion, and they drove like that for a long time, sharing the hurt, and didn't let go until they came to the sign declaring _Welcome to Sunnydale!_

As if recognizing the importance of crossing over city limits, Willow slowed the car to a stop and took a breath. After a few seconds, she said, "Home sweet home. Ready?" At Buffy's tiny nod, Willow dropped her chin and assumed her resolved face. "Okay, here goes nothing."

As if on cue, both women simultaneously took and held a deep breath, neither releasing the air until the vehicle was safely over the Sunnydale border.

There was an overwhelmingly _immediate_ sense of déjà vu. Because for a few blocks, it was all just so familiar. The houses looked the same, only darkened, as if the power had been cut. There was a brown tinge to the trees and what little grass was left, but it wasn't necessarily out of place. Southern California was often pretty thirsty with drought.

Then the first evidence of the Hellmouth's fall became clear. Debris was everywhere...scattered on rooftops, floating in gutters, littering the ground. Nearly every house had broken windows with blinds dangling like porcupine quills through the holes. Trees and bushes were felled, their dirt-filled roots overturned and sticking straight up in the air, leaving gaping holes in the earth. Cracks in the road made it difficult to navigate safely.

Two blocks beyond that, and Willow could drive no further. She pulled the car over, parking it at an angle in the middle of a street next to a leather barcalounger that lay tilted like a drunken hobo against a tree stump. She could see the edge of the crater down the street, and around it, the demolished city. What little of it that was left above ground was completely looted, in utter disrepair.

For a lifelong Sunnydale resident, the experience was absolutely heartbreaking.

From the passenger side, Buffy exited the car and stepped carefully into the debris. The sound of her door slamming carried down the empty street, then echoed when Willow did the same from the driver's side. The air was thick, she felt as if she was breathing through thick mud, and it slithered into her nostrils and down into her lungs as she stood there surveying the damage.

A street sign lay at her feet, its two metal plates hanging haphazardly from the end of the silver pole, dented green rectangles marked in white capital letters: ORVILLE RD and SUNSET RDG. Which meant they'd pulled over near the far edge of town, and the university loomed less than a block over. When Buffy turned in its direction, she could see through the damaged rooftops and razed trees, noting that while the campus still stood, a few buildings and the water tower were cracked and crumbling. The land had shifted more than enough to make the structures unsafe.

She breathed the thick air even deeper as she rounded her glance back to the other end of the street. All this loss, all this devastation. The whole of Sunnydale had suffered tremendously. They'd lost everything.

And none of them more than her.

Buffy's chest tightened in intense anger as she mentally ticked off her list of personal sacrifices. _Spike. Mom. The house on Revello Drive. Tara. Anya. All of her photos, her yearbooks, the cards she saved from birthdays and holidays. Mister Gordo. The skull ring she'd never returned after her engagement to Spike._ She had contributed all of these memories, her heart and soul to the greater good, and what did she have to show for it? _Not a fucking thing. _And she'd done it all for a bunch of ignorant, thankless sons of bitches. The realization made her seethe.

Willow's thoughts were filled with similar turmoil as images of Tara whirled around and around in her head. _All the times they shared coffee at the Espresso Bean. The walks they'd taken through the park near campus. Star gazing from the rooftop of their dormitory building. Playing house like a real, married couple from the master bedroom on Revello Drive._ All of these memories, her whole heart and her soul, she'd contributed to the greater good. She had zilch to show for it. And when she really thought about it, she realized that she'd done it all for one reason...and one reason only.

Willow finally turned her own gaze to Buffy, her pupils were pure black, her body tense with furious power. She raised a hand, palm facing the Slayer, with her fingers spread and ready to spell cast.

"This is all because of you, you know," the witch seethed between clenched teeth. "This is all your fault."

"Think so, do you?" came the blonde's reply in the seconds before she vaulted over the hood of the car in counterattack. "Why don't you say that again to my face?"

"Not a problem. This. Is. Your. Fault." Each of Willow's words was emphasized with the flare of her fingers, four powerful bursts of magick driving Buffy back over the hood of the car and onto the asphalt behind. Each thrust zapped the Slayer with a jolt strong enough to knock over a full-grown man, leaving the blonde struggling to stand amidst the live charges vacillating through her body.

Then Willow moved a little too close, her lack of fighting savvy working in Buffy's favor. The blonde kicked out and tripped the witch, knocking her to the ground before she was able to let loose another shocking pulse. Buffy jumped to her feet and towered over her friend-turned-opponent.

"What the hell did I do to _you_, witch bitch?" the slayer asked incredulously.

Willow went to defend herself with another spell, but Buffy kicked her roughly in her side, sending the redhead into spasms of pain. "Oh, sure, go for the magicks. Of course Willow's back on _them_ again. Just like always. Junkie, flunkie Willow," she kicked the redhead in the side, her foot impacting slightly lower than before. "Selfish Willow," one more kick, lower, this one to the kidney. "Come to magick me back again from a perfectly respectable afterlife?"

The redhead suddenly recoiled, the movement deliberate and not wholly self-protective. From this position, she was better able to visualize her magickal center, where she could draw all of her emotions and vengeance and anger and hatred into a big, burning ball of power. Forcing her body outward, she threw an outstretched hand in Buffy's direction and shouted, "_Irretite!_"

With a loud crack, two roots broke through the asphalt at Buffy's feet and started winding themselves around her ankles. A branch from a nearby tree grew and bound her hands as well.

Willow laughed with evil mirth. "You like that one? Thought you would. Used it on Warren, too. Seems fitting, huh? Bringing you back down to your roots. Just another big, fat ego, goin' around hurting the little people, ruining everything. Need to be put in her place. 'Member what I said before, Buffy? I think it's time for you to have every square inch of your ass kicked."

Buffy hadn't struggled—she wasn't scared—and now started to pull hard with her right leg and arm, then again with the left. The vines binding her broke with ease. _Was that the best she could do?_

"There you go again, thinking the world's yours to squish and mold the way you see fit. You know what, Willow? _You're_ the one that set this whole goddamn end-of-the-world apocalypse thing in motion. _You_ brought me back. _You _went all black veiny. It's because of _you_ that we're here."

Buffy paused, coming to a realization.

"It's because of _you_ that Spike's gone," she said, her voice suddenly quiet, reflective. Buffy reached out and grabbed Willow's neck, coiled back the fist of her other hand. "And bitch, you're gonna pay."

* * *

From across the street, Layla watched Buffy pummel the Red Witch with her fists and feet and forehead, over and over again, until Willow was nothing but meat and muscle and blood with only the weakest pulse to push it around.

It was happening so much faster now, that spread of morose desolation that infected people and made them passionate with anger and hatred. And it barely took any effort at all to affect them, to snake her magicks down their throats and into their hearts where it killed off all their hopes and dreams.

When their anguish was nice and juicy, she'd swoop in and finish them both off.

She sucked in a little taste, just to test the waters. The weaker of the two, the redhead, tasted like strawberries on a spring day, and Layla immediately decided she'd save her for dessert.

Then the slayer's scent hit her nostrils. Her whole body jolted, and she was immediately met with a familiar twinge of flavor that culled memories she'd forgotten eons ago, an essence that seemed to evoke thoughts of childhood. She couldn't quite place it, but licked her lips in anticipation and rubbed her hands together. The slayer's anguish would be the key to resurrecting her beloved, and she wanted to enjoy every moment of it.

* * *

Xander was dreaming, of that he was sure.

He didn't remember falling asleep, but he'd opened his eyes and immediately felt disoriented and dizzy, like he was wearing a pair of 3D glasses and his eyes were having trouble adjusting. A small shake of his head had eventually cleared enough of the fuzz for a quick scan of nearby landmarks and buildings. Sunnydale.

Only it _wasn't_ Sunnydale...at least, not the way he remembered it. It was more of a David Lynch-style Twin Peaks version, with frond-less palm trees jutting up out of hills of desert sand, and houses with straw roofs and hard candy windows. Empty, horseless wagons, parked here and there, their wooden wheels buried under drifts of sand. The sky, churning with the swirls of a Van Gogh painting, was yellow and green and blue and pink. And, curiously enough, Big Ben loomed overhead, high over the tree tops as if the structure stood right in the middle of the next block. There was the sudden pop of a firecracker, followed by a loud crash, then the British landmark flickered out of sight like the end of a roll of movie film.

Xander sat there, staring, the crackling and crashing continuing in the distance, his mind racing. A second glance at the surrounding houses put him on State Street, in front of what looked like the Kirshners' two-story house, which meant Buffy's Craftsman-style was just a street...er, sandlot over, in roughly the same general area recently vacated by the monstrous clock tower.

"Bit surreal, huh?"

The moment he heard the voice, memories of African demons and seas of dark skin and tribal huts and vision quests came rushing back, becoming stunningly clear and focused. He had a purpose.

When he twisted to address his companion, Xander was shocked into silence. Having apparently located the Fountain of Youth on the trip over, the holy man looked as if forty years of wear and tear had vanished from his face. Crystal clear blue eyes peered back, oddly large and wide open without the curtain of sagging brow skin blocking them, and the wrinkles that had once drawn canals over his cheeks were now smooth, revealing a terribly handsome visage with full lips, a strong nose and cheekbones that softened the instant he smiled.

"You know, you really should market the cosmic facelifts," said Xander. "You could make a killing."

The holy man chuckled before nodding his head. "We project our dream selves as we see our real selves. Y'know, I seem to remember you missin' a peeper, too, boy."

Xander raised his hands to his face, and sure enough, there were soft, bulging bumps behind both eyelids and no eyepatch impeded his left eye, which explained why everything seemed so multi-dimensional.

"Hey, groovy," Xander said appreciatively. "Though admittedly this gives me one less repository for my spare change."

The shaman rolled his eyes before gesturing down the street. "Let's go, come on. We need to make the most of this quest before the effects of the trance wear off. Walk with me, Xander, and look around you. Remember what you see."

"Yes, Xander," came a soft, silken female voice. "Remember what you see...what you see...you see...see." Like a fairy echo, the voice drifted on the air, sweet and melodious and sarcastic and innocent and oddly literal in a way that only _she_ could pull off. _Anya._

But when he turned to look, she wasn't there, her voice was but a memory on the wind.

"Come, Xander," reminded the shaman from up ahead.

Xander nodded and followed the dark-skinned man, forcing his attention to his surroundings as they made their way to the corner and turned toward the Summers' residence. It was slow-going, in that walking-on-clouds sort of way dreams typically were, though after years of walking beaches, he was prepared for a struggled trek through the sand. Nothing, however, could have prepared him for what he found when they got to Buffy's.

Hundreds of demonic creatures—monsters from every slayer mission, nightmare, ghost story and horror flick there likely _ever_ was—were gathered at 1630 Revello Drive, seated with backs to the house, in rows upon rows of sports bleachers. They cheered and hooted and hollered, and Xander watched them collectively rise and fall with the Wave as it crested over the sea of colorful faces. It was hard to make out more than a few species, they were packed too close together, like satanic sardines, but the flag pennants and foam fingers waving over their heads were hard to miss...as were the words sprawled across them:

"#1 SLAYER!"

"TEAM WITCH!"

A squad of tiny green creatures, no taller than Xander's kneecap, waved pom-poms and megaphones and banners at the crowd. "Rah, rah, rah!" they shouted.

It was all so surreal. Xander barely had a chance to make sense of what he was looking at when a loud crash to his right caught his attention. He spun, instantly horrified to find Buffy and Willow locked in a heated battle from nearby opposing hills of sand. By the looks of it, the Slayer had just thrown a punch—at least judging by the sound of the crash and the hand Willow was currently holding to a bloodied nose—but the witch didn't appear interested in wasting time nursing her boo-boos. Instead, she drew her hand up into a brilliant light, filled her palm with a neon green brighter than he'd ever seen before, shot out of Willow's fingertips, jagging in criss-crosses like a heartbeat monitor straight into Buffy's chest. The slayer fell and didn't move for the space of two breaths.

"Kill the bitch!"

"Finish her!"

The crowd went wild, demons of all shapes and sizes rising to their feet amidst the boisterous cheering, filling the gap between Buffy's collapse and whatever came next. When the Slayer finally rose again, the crowd quieted, seating themselves again in anticipation of the next round.

And yet, even after every other butt had met its seat, one lone being stood, a man with a platinum crown and a pale face, towering over a plethora of inhuman ones.

_Spike. _

For the space of several heartbeats, the vampire—because even though it was technically sunny in this version of "reality," Xander _assumed_ Spike was still a vampire here—simply stood there, crystal blue eyes locked on brown, a pointed stare as if conveying a message of importance from his pupils to Xander's.

"Huh?" Xander wondered aloud.

Spike tilted his head as if he'd heard. And smiled.

And then the crowd went apeshit, shifting from seated to standing in the span of a microsecond. Xander looked, and Spike was gone.

_Remember_, Xander reminded himself, turning his attention back to the main event and his two best friends.

The newly recovered Buffy was now sporting eyes that were, quite literally, firetruck red and gleaming with fury. She advanced on the witch like a lion on the prowl, bright-as-a-stoplight eyes smoldering against an on-guard Willow, and the witch, in return, threw a spell that missed Buffy's shoulder by about a foot. The error proved enough of a distraction to gain Buffy the full advantage.

From there, it took only seconds.

In one breath, Xander watched the Slayer leap from her sand mound to Willow's, reaching out to grab the witch by the throat as her foot meet the dirt. In the next breath, Buffy had wrenched her hand, a resounding crack telling him that Willow's neck asno broken, fell lifelessly to the ground.A cheer rose up from the grandstands, but the crescendo of demonic merry-making dinned almost as quickly as it started. The demons and bleachers and Willow's body shifted from varying, vivid colors to an overwhelmingly boring palette of tans and browns. Only Buffy was left in full color, her skin a rosy, shimmery glow, eyes shifting from red to emerald green, and blonde hair billowing behind her like strands of pure gold.

She seemed to light up like the sun, her skin emitting a golden shimmer, and the black leather she wore stood out in stark contrast to the muted neutrals of everything around her. She looked directly at Xander and cocked her head to the side.

"Spores in time, pawns at play, in a wasteland devoid of love and hope," she said.

"Can someone please tell me why no one _ever_ speaks plain English in these things?" Xander complained to the shaman, but he didn't get a response.

Dream Buffy went on. "Death is _my_ gift. Love is_ our _gift."

"A rerun? C'mon," Xander whined. "You know, directors today, they have to no sense of originality."

"Death is _my_ gift. Love is_ our_ gift," Dream Buffy repeated. "Together as one, us and you, little brother, for the sake of the world. Sow the seeds, and right this wasteland."

From behind the bleacher crept a beautiful woman, with eyes the color of the night, skin like heavily creamed coffee, a glossy mane of mahogany hair flowing in soft, shiny waves to the small of her back. She wore a slinky dress of red, with a deep V that cut to below her navel, so deep that Xander wondered how she kept her tits from popping out. The hemline flared just above knees that were smooth and slender.

"Alaylashmi," whispered the shaman in awe from behind Xander's shoulder.

Xander had nearly forgotten the old guy was there and was confused. "Alay-who?"

"Alaylashmi," repeated his guide, sotto voce. He stared in wonder for few seconds, then added, "Layla."

The woman walked toward Buffy, who'd snapped back into the action shot as if she'd never gone all Oracle-at-Delphi seconds before. Layla's hips twisted sensually with each step she took closer to the Slayer, goading Buffy's gaze upwards to eyes that had started glowing, flashing, spinning. When Buffy finally looked up...the very instant the two women locked eyes, Layla's approach abruptly halted. They stood there, inches from one another, staring for long, long seconds.

Suddenly Layla gasped and her eyes went wide with shock. Xander thought he heard her whisper someone's name: "Mary Bayhan."

And then the Slayer's body just sort of...dissolved, until all that was left of Buffy was a small pile of fossilized dust.

The sky, with its swirls of pinks and greens and blues, went completely black, and a bolt of lightning ripped through the center of it, opening up the expanse of nothingness like a giant zipper. Molten lava poured out from the crack, covering Sunnydale and the horseless carriages, the demons and the foam fingers, smoldering the sand into glass and leaving everything—Xander included—in its wake, frozen in time.

Xander was terrified. He couldn't move as the river of burning rock pooled around his ankles and melted the flesh off his toes and the soles of his feet. The pain was excruciating, the sounds torturous as he listened to his skin hiss and pop like a hush puppy in hot oil. Wrenching his head to the side, seeking his guide where the shaman had been only moments before, but he realized quickly he was alone.

"Xander," came the holy man's voice, warm in his ear. "Let go, Xander. Just let go."

But his ankles were burning...melting...and then his knees...and then the lava rose to his thighs and covered his lower body.

"Relax, boy. It's not real," reminded the shaman. "Close your eyes."

But Xander didn't listen. He just screamed and screamed and screamed, until his throat was raw and the magma reached his lungs and melted them, too. Without the means to draw his next breath, Xander finally closed his eyes and blissfully succumbed to the whirling blackness.


	7. The Handle Toward My Hand

**Chapter Six: The Handle Toward My Hand**

Driving had never really been all that important to Buffy. She could, after all, walk just about anywhere in Sunnydale, and in the event a more distant destination made driving unavoidable, there was nearly always a ride she could bum from Spike, Giles or one of the Scoobies. She'd really only had to drive Mom's Jeep a handful of times.

The relocation to a vastly larger, much more populous locale hadn't changed her preferred mode of transportation, either. Buffy'd sooner be found hoofing it on foot than behind the wheel, or else she'd just hitch a ride with Faith or one of the baby slayers if it was too far to walk.

As far as she'd always been concerned, Buffy plus carequals unmixy.

With the distinct exception of one _particularly_ memorable driving experience.

Several years before, somewhere between her stint in the psych ward and the big move to Sunnydale, Buffy had spent a week at her Aunt Carol's beach house in Palos Verdes. Failed marriage number four had left Hank Summers' younger sister a very, _very_ wealthy woman, with a desire for a rock star return to singlehood that coincided rather nicely with Buffy's desire for an escape from reality. Which meant plenty of high-class girl time, a few covert glasses of _really_ expensive wine, about 42 pounds of imported Swiss chocolate, and Aunt Carol's newest post-alimony acquisition: a brand new, cherry red Ferrari 348 convertible.

Hot damn, but that car had been _fierce_. It simply oozed power and sex, spoke the languages of intrigue and confidence, and made every day a top-down, sun-in-your-face, careening-through-life's-tunnel-of-wind Thrill Spectacular and Extravaganza.

The week had been spectacularly unbeatable and _definitely_ unforgettable. And then it got better. Near the end of their time together, Aunt Carol had issued the chocolate-covered offer to top all offers: she'd asked Buffy if she wanted to drive.

It never occurred to Buffy—not even for a single second—to admit to her aunt that she didn't have her license, and she hadn't said a word about the clash that occurred between Buffy and anything on wheels. She'd simply swiped the keys out of her aunt's palm, hopped into the front left bucket seat, and driven carefully to the nearest interstate entrance ramp. Then she'd floored the pedal, the tires had chirped, and she'd let off the brake.

And had what she'd later learn was her very first orgasm.

That red box of mechanized sex had renewed in Buffy a sense of power and confidence in her Calling that she'd lost in the aftermath of Hemery High. Pulled her out of a dark place in a way no pill or couch confessional could've ever done.

And though it had taken her nearly a decade and a shitload of sacrifice before she got behind the wheel of another one, Buffy discovered that the driver's seat of an Italian sports car still held the same magical effect.

Because now, squealing with glee, she was speeding east on I-80, fondling the patch of buttery leather stretched over the gear shift of her new, hot pink Lamborghini Diablo. A modernized body style and some upgrades in technology had changed the wrapper of her psychotherapy on wheels, but inside, the results were the same: no more desolation, no more depression, no more caring.

Buffy felt crazy strong and ah-fucking-mazing.

Who cared if her driving skills were shitty at best? Or that she'd acquired the car through somewhat...unethical means? Didn't the Slayer—the one girl in all the world chosen to stand against the forces of darkness, yadda yadda—deserve a little prezzie after all the darkness she'd faced and the enemies she'd conquered? She'd worked _damn_ hard for this.

Okay. So she'd stolen it.

Right out from under the driver, in the middle of Spring Street, on the front steps of the Los Angeles offices of Wolfram &amp; Hart. Straight up carjacked the bitch in broad daylight. Peeled down the middle of downtown and on her merry way. Outrunning the cops.

Twice.

She'd seen the car and she'd decided she wanted it. Simple as that. Want, take, have. Isn't that what Faith always said?

And fuck, if Layla hadn't been _right_. The anguish? It had been delicious. _Ridiculously _delicious. Buffy could smell the panic as she'd pulled the car's owner from the driver's seat and pummeled the woman to death with her bare hands. Could taste the fear lacing the woman's breath as the life drained, little by little, from the top of her perfectly coiffed black hair right down to her snakeskin Manolo Blahniks.

Buffy smirked, lifting the ball of her left foot off the clutch pedal, twisting her ankle on the sharp stiletto heel so she could admire the sleek, angled heel of the pumps.

She'd always wanted Manolos, too.

She drew her fingers around the shifter, pumped the clutch, and threw the transmission into sixth gear. It only took a few tries...and anyways, the car didn't stall, so that was winning in her book. She reached for her cell phone and one-hand-dialed the Cleveland apartment.

Faith picked up on the second ring, yawning. "'Lo?"

"Oh, good, you're home," said Buffy. She frowned when the minivan to her left swerved into her lane, nearly cutting her off. She pressed the gas pedal further against the floor to pull ahead of the offending vehicle.

"Yeah, I'm home." Faith said. "'S that you, B?"

Buffy turned the steering wheel sharply, veering the Diablo into the left lane with a screech of the tires. "Mm-hmm," she affirmed distractedly, pressing the button on the arm of her door to lower the passenger-side window.

"So, uh, what's up?" Faith inquired, a soft groan under her breath that told Buffy she was stretching. "This'd better be good. I was just gettin' to the creamy center of a threesome with Eminem and Vin Diesel."

In Buffy's rearview mirror, the other driver was flipping her off and mouthing a collection of silent obscenities from the cabin of the Mom Mobile. Nonplussed, Buffy simply smiled, grabbed the chocolate shake she'd ordered a few exits back, and threw the remainder of its contents out the window. Leaned back in the low seat and watched in the reflection, satisfied as a thick wave of brown, icy goo splattered across the left side of the minivan's windshield. The vehicle screeched to a stop, wipers engaged, horn blaring.

"Serves you right, you trollop," Buffy screamed into the wind, laughing and saluting with her own middle finger as she sped off into the night. _Trollop_. She'd heard Spike say the word once and had liked how it sounded. _Trollop_. "Now stay away from my pretty car."

"Whatcha doin', B? Y'sound a little...off," Faith was saying, clearly uncertain of what to make of Buffy's behavior. "You on the grog again, baby girl? Ev'rything okay?"

"Nah, some fat bitch just cut me off, but it's all good. I was just calling to make sure you'd be there when I got in. I'm 'bout an hour away."

"Oh, um, you're on the way? Done in L.A. already? How'd it go? Did you see Angel?"

"Not really done, just coming to take care of a few things. Then I'm going back. And Angel's fine...yeah, I saw him _just_ fine," Buffy replied. "Oh, hey, guess what?"

"Hmm?"

"I got a pretty pink car! Just like Barbie!" As an afterthought, she added, "It goes very, very fast."

"Oh, uh, yeah?" Faith asked, uncertain. "So, listen...is, uh, is Willow around?"

"Nope," Buffy said again. A manic giggle flooded the blonde Slayer's voice as she sang, "_Willow, Willow, the big bad witch. Can't talk now 'cuz I killed the bitch!_" She giggled again at her impromptu ditty. "Oh, my god! Listen to me! I'm a poet and I didn't even know it!"

A loud screech and the rev of an engine drew Buffy's eyes back to her rearview mirror. She must've decelerated while talking to Faith, because the minivan was coming up over the hill behind the Lamborghini, and the suburban soccer mom—an ugly, heavyset woman with frizzy red hair and the face of a blob fish, now that Buffy could see her a little better—was presently hanging out the open window, screaming and shaking her puffy fist in Buffy's general direction.

"Would you look at the _balls_ on _this_ bitch." Buffy mumbled, slowing a bit more and lowering the passenger side window. As she pulled up alongside the pink sports car, she could sense the waves of rage beaming off the minivan, radiating like an echo into and around the compact cabin of the Diablo. Buffy could taste it on her tongue, just like Layla had taught her.

_Mmmm._

Then she remembered she was still on the phone, and into the mouthpiece, yelled, "Oh, hey, I gotta go, Faithie. I've got something I need to do before I get there. But I won't be long. I'll see ya soon."

And then she flipped the cell phone shut and threw it on the seat beside her, veering sharply to the right and into the minivan's front fender. The maneuver surprised the other driver, and Buffy cracked up as the woman screamed, panicking, losing control of the boxy vehicle. It tipped up on its left wheels for a second or two, then slammed back down with a bounce right into a fishtail. It took a few seconds, but the woman righted it on its course, and she glared back at Buffy.

Laughing with maniacal glee, the Slayer swerved a second time, this time hitting the side of the minivan hard enough to knock it off of the strip of asphalt, into the guardrail and over the shoulder of the road. The vehicle tumbled, bottom over top, bottom over top, right down into the grassy ditch lining the interstate.

Buffy's laugh bubbled up and out again, though the mirth quickly dissolved into a frustrated sigh as she realized the car was probably ruined. Chewing her bottom lip, she braked quickly and skidded to a halt, shoving the transmission into park and jumping out to survey the damage.

All of this anxiety made her very, very angry. She didn't like to be angry.

The Lambo's right front fender was dented and cracked, bent in odd angles at either end. The mirror hung by a black electrical cable and there was a gash across the door panel, and when she looked down at the wheel, she realized the chrome on the front rim was scratched all to hell. _Goddammit._ Driveable, sure, but a major eyesore nonetheless. All that pretty, shiny, sparkly hot pink and silver sexiness...now just a giant jumble of scratches and dents and sharp metal edges.

Buffy pouted. She'd worked so damn hard to get the car.

"How dare you!" a voice shrieked from behind her.

Buffy turned her head toward the noise, glancing back over her shoulder and down the grassy embankment to watch as the driver struggled to pull herself out of the minivan's dented hatchback. Her face and upper torso were a bloody mess, all scratched up and bruised like she'd been the butt of a prize fight, and the right leg of her pink Bermuda shorts was ripped nearly to the waist. The woman stumbled up the grassy hill with an obvious limp in her right ankle.

"Who the _fuck_ do you think you are, you _bitch_?" the woman yelled, stalking awkwardly up to where Buffy and the parked sports car stood waiting. "Bet you think you're the fucking shit in that car, don'tcha? Don'tcha?"

_Oh, snap, _thought the Slayer. _First this bitch totals my brand new car, now she's tryin' to go all Matilda the Hun on my ass? Ha!_ Soccer Mom had _no clue_ who she was messing with.

A wave of fresh hatred swirled in the pit of Buffy's belly, erupting and slithering up her throat like a snake, scorching her nostrils and eye sockets like poison. An evil smirk turned the corners of her lips up and outward.

She focused her gaze on the woman's pupils, and when their eyes locked, the heavyset woman gasped. "What the...what the hell are you?" Minivan Mama whispered, backing away with timid, tiny steps. It was clear she was desperate to tear her eyes away—Buffy could feel her struggling against the trance—but she eventually relaxed and acquiesced. Just as Buffy knew she would.

"That's a go-o-ood girl," the Slayer crooned, reaching out to run her hand down the woman's cheek as if she was petting an overweight poodle. One with skin rough to the touch, who smelled worse than a double shift at the DMP. Buffy grimaced. _Gross._ "Have you never heard of moisturizer? Soap? Geez Louise. You're disgusting."

Then Buffy looked down at the Lamborghini and pouted. "And you ruined my new car," she whined. "That wasn't very nice of you. It took me a really long time to find it. And lots and lots of work."

The woman whimpered.

"Now I need a new one, and I _don't_ want yours, 'cuz...well, let's be honest with each other. That's a stupid ass minivan you got laying down there in that ditch," Buffy said. "I'm thinkin' I did you a pretty big favor. What the fuck are you thinking? Do you have those stupid little stick figures in the back window? The daddy and the mommy...a little ballerina...a midget with a baseball glove. Betcha got a _My Kid's an Honor Student_ bumper sticker, too, huh?

The woman just kept whimpering.

"Don'tcha? _Don'tcha_?" Buffy mimicked, then rolled her eyes in disgust. "God, have you given up _completely_?"

The whimpering had quieted, the woman having abandoned the effort to break eye contact or fight Buffy's control. It was like watching the same TV show over and over again. Predictable. Boring. Forgettable.

"You know, it's no fun when you don't fight back," she muttered, and reached out to push the other woman down to the ground. Placed a hand on either side of the whimpering female's face, crouched down low, eyes still locked tight.

"Someone very, very important _burned_ so you could live," Buffy said, her voice low and each word enunciated, like a parent warning a toddler. "He gave his _unlife_ for you so you could march your fat ass out to your ugly minivan, trot around your brood of ugly ankle-biters, go on about your boring life, day after day. What the fuck makes _you_ so special?"

With a sharp twist, she broke Minivan Mama's neck and then let go, letting the woman's bulky frame drop lifelessly to the ground as she walked back to the damaged Lamborghini.

Cleveland or bust.

* * *

Xander was dizzy when he woke, still caught on the cusp between two realities, half of his brain convinced he'd merely blinked, the other half wondering if he'd had a bad mescalin trip in a desert hell dimension. It took a few minutes to orient himself, but when awareness finally set in, he jumped to his feet...and then just kind of stood there awkwardly, not really sure what to do next.

"So...what do you think?" the shaman's voice culled Xander's attention, giving Xander something—in this case, across the room—to focus on. He turned his head a little too quickly, though, and his brain took a second or two to wobble around before it followed suit.

The old man's eyes were lit with vigor, his back was straight, a bright smile emblazoned his face...all telltale signs he'd been spared the case of post-quest jet lag currently pounding a tribal drumbeat in Xander's head. His youthful features, too, were gone...once again hidden by wrinkled folds of skin that furrowed even deeper the wider he smiled. The shaman held a green Tupperware pitcher and was tipping it over a pair of mismatched glasses on the kitchen table.

"What do you think?" he repeated, then walked one of the drinks over and handed it to the still-silent Xander. The other glass, he touched to his own puckered lips, closing his eyes in satisfaction as his tongue met the liquid inside.

When Xander knocked back his own, a flood of cool, sour-sweet lemonade filled his mouth, instantly energizing him. _Calgon, Calgon, take me away_, he thought, delighting in the way the hangover stupor plaguing him just sort of disappeared. Like magic.

"Thank you." Xander nodded appreciatively at the shaman. "And what do I think? Well, that depends. Should I lead with a critical review of _Buffy and Willow Beyond Thunderdome_ or would Captain Peroxide's guest appearance be a better story starter?"

In the silence that followed, Xander drew a second gulp of lemonade between his teeth, smacking his lips from the glass and then together, staring at the straw ceiling. He was pondering the old man's unanswered question.

"I guess I don't really know _what _to think yet," Xander finally said. He set the drink down and took a deep breath, running his hand through his hair so the moisture from the glass's surface left damp strands standing on end. Then he set his feet to pacing circles on the worn floor, took a half dozen steps before speaking again. "I mean, there's not really anything that makes sense to me right now. The demons...the cheering...the fighting..."

_Pace, pace, pace. _

"I mean, there's a _reason_ I don't get the prophetic dreams." Xander stopped pacing for a moment and spun to face the shaman. "Shit, man. Willow! And Buffy! I mean...what am I _supposed_ to think after watching my best friends beat each other to death?"

Outside, he could hear a few kids shouting to one another. A dog bark.

Inside, only silence.

A stray tear escaped, though Xander hadn't even realized he'd been crying. Embarrassed, he swiped at his one eye with a frustrated fist.

"And then there's all this...I don't know..._spores in time_ and _little brother_ and _pawns at play_ shit. Always with the cryptograms and the puzzles and the code words that mean fourteen things at once. How does it all make sense? How does it...I mean..._fuck._" Defeated, he lowered his head and rested his palms on his waist.

"You know how these things work, Xander," the shaman finally remarked. "It takes time before things start to make sense. Right now, it only _feels_ like chaos. It won't always."

"Buddy, I'm beyond chaos. I've completely skipped Chaosville, crossed the border into Panic Land and am careening, full speed, toward Terror City. For the acid trip from hell and the message it was trying to send. The newest big bad's about to go all _Resident Evil_ on the world, and apparently _I'm_ the one's supposed to stop it from happening. _Me._ Glorified bricklayer and unimportant sidekick extraordinaire." He rolled his eyes. "Someone in the PTB's got a _wicked_ sense of humor."

"You know, Xander, you only _think _you're unimportant," the shaman replied quietly. "And you're wrong. You have no idea just how special you are. You _see_ things other people don't."

"Mm-hmm," Xander harrumphed. "I got the same pep talk the _last_ time I hitched a ride on the short bus to hell. Only that time, it was from someone much younger, much prettier and, frankly, a bit more convincing than you are." A moment later, he added, "And I wasn't playing lead role."

Lead role or not, though, Dawn was right. He really should've gotten a cape. Capes were _so_ underrated.

"Xander, tell me something. Do you think you ended up here by accident?" The shaman inquired with an oh-you-silly-boy grin. "You think you're just some kind of a...what? A last resort?"

Xander snorted. "The thought had crossed my mind."

The old man chuckled. "Perhaps Dawn isn't quite as astute as I'd thought."

Xander smiled wistfully, his heart swelling, and he realized he felt touched instead of surprised at the mention of Dawn Summers.

"In point of fact, though, the Key truly is wise beyond her human years." The smile still lingered in the shaman's voice, though he'd stopped poking fun. "She's amazing, you know. Dawn. And what she told you...about the seeing and the knowing? That was more than a little sister supporting her big brother. Because she was right, it _is_ your super power."

Xander didn't reply.

"C'mon," the shaman continued. "You know how the story goes. Dawn's an ancient, mystical energy with the power to unlock dimensions. She see into other worlds." When Xander nodded, the holy man continued. "She saw into _you_. The fact that neither of you realized it doesn't mean it didn't happen. She saw you. The _real_ you."

"Mm-hmm, okay," Xander replied. "Look...are Will and Buffy okay? I mean...what did I…? Are they okay? Do you know?"

"No."

"No, they're not okay? Or no, you don't know?"

"No, they're not okay," came the reply, but it wasn't the shaman providing clarification.

It was a somewhat familiar voice, one that originated from behind a cloud of purple smoke that had, only milliseconds before, appeared in the center of the hut. And as quickly as it materialized, the smoke misted away, leaving a pale blue-faced demon in its wake.

Xander nearly fell over in surprise.

"If Ms. Rosenberg and the Slayer have yet to succumb," continued D'Hoffryn, as easily as if he'd been part of the conversation from the start, "they will soon. And they're only a few steps ahead of the rest of this godforsaken world. Better get a good look around you, Mr. Harris, because once it gets started, this entire dimension is gonna detonate faster than Bennifer post-_Gigli_."


	8. Art Thou Not Fatal Vision

**Chapter Seven: Art Thou Not Fatal Vision**

"What are _you_ doing here?" Xander spewed at the new visitor.

"Mr. Harris, how lovely to see you again." D'Hoffryn said as he raised his palms. "I come in peace. I mean no harm. Like you, I am merely a pawn."

Almost to himself, Xander muttered, "What is it with all this _pawn_ shit?" A little louder, "I don't play games with demons, _demon_. Least of all with one who's _you_."

D'Hoffryn placed a mocking hand over his heart. "Ever the gallant gentleman."

Xander scowled. "Oh, come-"

"You're both guests in my home," the shaman interrupted. He'd remained silent through the previous exchange, but now his voice carried a note of admonishment, like a father scolding his naughty children. "How about we try to maintain _some_ sense of decorum? Remember, we have a mutual goal here."

"What mutual goal? He nearly killed Anya," snapped Xander, pointing at the offender. "Twice. Thrice, even!" He held three fingers high, eyes wide, to emphasize a desperate statement. "And let's not forget the dozens of times after _that_ he sent someone _else _to do the killing _for _him. Or how about the times he tried to bring Willow over to the dark side? Mutual goal, my ass!"

"I owe you no explanations, Mr. Harris," D'Hoffryn defended, his voice low, cautionary. Then he sighed and raised his hands again, this time in capitulation. "But I will give them to you nonetheless."

The demon made a big show of arranging his robes around his wrists, drawing out the silence as the other two men waited for him to respond.

"As much as you'd like to blame me," D'Hoffryn began, "rules must be followed. Universal truths. Anyanka was with me for more than a thousand years, and she knew the consequences of _every_ rule she broke. _Every one of them,_" he repeated sternly, eyes locked on Xander's, before his expression went soft. "But my heart broke with each of them. I cherished her, Mr. Harris, and I never stopped loving her-"

"Oh, I'm sure. Never stopped, huh? Even when you were hiring out contracts on her head."

"Even then," came the demon's immediate acknowledgement.

Xander snorted.

"Why is it _still_ so difficult for you to believe demons are capable of love?" D'Hoffryn asked. "Yes! I _loved_ Anyanka as if she were my own flesh and horns. If you weren't so narrow-minded, maybe you'd see that and understand you're not alone in your grief."

"Oh, that's rich," Xander muttered under his breath. Trusting the demon's sincerity took a whole lot more effort than he was ready to expend just yet. "I'm sure you suffered along with me...right up until you found the next Scorned Suzie to woo over to the Dark Side. Your suffering humbles me,_ Hoff." _Xander shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Get bent."

D'Hoffryn's eyes simmered with anger. He stood up straighter, nearly a foot taller in imposition over the other man. "You'd best watch your mouth, human. I could make your entrails bleed out of your eye sockets without so much as a breath, and before you'd even _thought_ to fight back, I'd be gone."

Xander rolled his eyes again. He'd have been terrified a year or two ago. Aloof and apathetic was the way of the game today. He just didn't care.

"As I recall," the demon continued, "it wasn't so long ago that it was _your_ suffering in question. When it was _you_ who had caused the great offense to Anyanka and _I_ who was cleaning up the mess you'd left behind."

"Oh, 'sat right?" laughed Xander. "Cleaning up the mess? Is _that_ what we're calling it? Ha! More like handing her the red pill right back down into the evil rabbit hole. And anyways, _so_ not the issue here, Papa Smurf."

This time, it was D'Hoffryn who went with the eye roll. "What is it with...and why do you assume my intentions with Ms. Rosenberg were evil? So I tried to recruit her. Can you blame me? The girl's a vengeance natural!" The blue demon shrugged. "It's not as if I forced her. She declined my offer every time I asked, and I never pushed. What's so evil about that?"

Xander didn't answer, knowing he was being deliberately stubborn but refusing to admit defeat to a _demon_.

"You may not agree with my method," D' Hoffryn continued, "but you can hardly deny its purpose. The clients I serve have a legitimate need."

"Legita-"

But the shaman caught Xander's eye before he could finish his thought. The old man was shuffling back to his cushion on the floor, his palms up to shush his companions, then waving to either side in an invitation to join him in front of the fire. Xander hurried to arrange himself on the orange and red cushions.

"You must get over your past prejudices," the shaman quietly said to Xander. "This is not just_ your_ future we are discussing, Xander, but the future of the world as we know it. We have no time to argue past hurts. D'Hoffryn knows his place in this battle. Now it's time you learned yours as well."

The shaman waved a hand, blanketing the air within the hut with a sense of calm that took the scowl off Xander's face and relaxed him against the pillows.

"Your anger and pain are strong," the old man continued, "and you've used them to get you this far. But they're only shadows compared to your _real_ powers. Compared to what's bolstered you through countless other battles." He paused. "You _feel_."

Xander went to interrupt, but the shaman shushed him.

"No, unh-unh. Let me finish. You look at the world around you," he said, gesturing with wide arms as if to encompass the cozy dimness of the little hut. "You empathize with those who are hurting and _see_ things that others _don't_." In a quieter voice, almost as an aside, he added, "That's not to say you don't sometimes fail _miserably_ at it. Even _you_ can admit your mind can be a bit...narrow."

The blue demon snorted, drew his hand up to his mouth and coughed...a harsh, hacking sound that sounded a lot like "Anyanka" behind his closed fist.

Xander sneered, but the shaman's exasperated sigh cut his complaint short and drew the attention back to his wrinkled face. "Enough," came the holy man's quiet reproach. He turned to Xander. "Why'd you come to Africa in the first place? You could've gone anywhere in the world, and you ended up right _here_."

"I kinda just hopped a plane and went where it took me," Xander replied sheepishly. "I didn't ask where I was going until we'd been airborne for six hours. I prob'ly had at least twice that many of those tiny airline liquor bottles sloshing around in my belly by then, too." Then Xander looked down at the floor and scratched the crown of his head, embarrassed by his next statement. "I took it as a sign that I was going the same place ol' Evil Dead got his soul back. Figured I was due something...you know, cosmic karma. That I deserved a reward, and that maybe, for once, the universe was feelin' generous."

"Yes, because the universe if often _so_ charitable," answered D'Hoffryn. "So what were you going to ask for?"

"Action Comics, issue one." Xander's voice was strong and certain, and he looked directly at D'Hoffryn when he said it. _Two can play this game_. He smirked at the demon's irritation. "Do you know how much that sucker's worth? I mean, c'mon. Superman's first appearance, damsels in distress, Lois Lane? It's like the pop culture equivalent of the Holy Grail..."

D'Hoffryn groaned.

"Oh, chill out. I'm only joking." Xander rolled his eyes. Then he shrugged, saying simply, "I'd want Anya back." Before D'Hoffryn could interrupt, Xander raised a halting hand. "I know, I know. Mortal death, balance of the universe, yadda yadda yadda. I get it. Let's just say the idea sounded better when it was swimming in a dozen tequila shots." He ran his hand over his head, swiped the hand down over his face. Sighed in frustration.

D'Hoffryn looked thoughtful. "And you're aware of what your vampire went through to get his _own_ request granted, right?" the demon inquired.

"Trials and tribulations, blood and guts. Yeah. So?"

"You were prepared to offer your own?" prodded the demon.

"Maybe you're not keeping up," Xander snarked. "As I was saying, me and my pal, Jose Cuervo, we had ourselves a little talk and decided I'd already fulfilled the whole blood-spilling trials and torture bit."

"Oh, I see. So you were thinking this demon would accept _that_ as payment?" D'Hoffryn asked.

Xander had the tact to look sheepish. "Never said it made sense," he mumbled.

"Okay, so I'll surprise you," said the demon, nodding. "I think it was a good start. A misguided one, perhaps, but a good one because you were right about a few things: you_ do_ deserve some help from the universe and you _will _need the assistance of a demon to get it. Just...not in the way you think."

"Oh, yeah? Pray tell."

D'Hoffryn shrugged. "You need _me._"

"Oh, that's nice. So you're the guy for the job, huh?" asked Xander. "Doesn't _that_ seem like a sound plan."

"Look, I'm no more excited than you are, but it is what it is." The demon raised his hands in surrender. "These are desperate times, Mr. Harris, and frankly, it really doesn't matter which side of the coin you're on. The train's coming and it's gonna flatten us all against the tracks if we don't try to stop it..."—the demon grimaced—"...together. Much as I hate to admit it."

Xander's gaze swung in panic from the demon to the shaman and back again. "Right, okay...so...that works how?"

"He gives you what you need to win the race," D'Hoffryn replied simply, tipping his thumb toward the shaman. Then he pointed at his own chest and said, "I grant the wish that gets you to the starting line." Then he shrugged, with a finger to Xander, and finished with a simple: "It's your job to finish first."

"Mm-hmm. Okay...so...maybe I'll catch that again on its second pass around?"

"Xander," interrupted the shaman, "what you saw in your vision...that was real, my boy. Layla's coming. We _have _to stop her. There is no choice."

"Yeah, but it's not the whole stopping Layla thing that's got me stumped. It's the _middle_ part that's a little problematic," said Xander. "Well, that and the part about me saving the world, but we'll get back to that later." He turned to D'Hoffryn. "Just what wish, exactly, will you be granting? Last I checked, wishes to you and yours _rarely_ turn out the way you want 'em to."

"Not when they're properly made. It's an art, Mr. Harris. We'll make sure we do it right."

"Well, then, I'm curious," Xander said. "What exactly do _you_ get out of it? I mean, I see how defeating Layla is good for those of us interested in saving mankind and all. But what's in it for you? You're...evil. Why not just go back to Arashma-whatsit, let Buffy and Will go all vengeancy, then come back and wreak the benefits on the back end?"

The horned demon sighed deeply, considering his reply. "If Layla somehow returns…" He paused and shook his head, clearly thinking bad thoughts but refusing to voice them. "Let's just say that those of us who _can_ leave this dimension will have no choice but to do so...and we'll do it in a _mad dash_. In the space of a few weeks, Xander, everything you see around you will be gone. Not dead, not empty, but _gone_. This entire planet will be a wasteland."

"But-" Xander began.

"The truth is," D'Hoffryn continued, "I like this world the way it is. You've got beignets with cafe au lait. Winnebagos. Swiss Chocolate. Lizzie McGuire." D'Hoffryn shuddered with delight. "And most importantly, you've got _people_. Billions of people, walking around like revenge-seeking dollar signs on legs, most of them unable or unwilling to mete out proper vengeance without my assistance. So you see, I've got a vested interest in keeping all of you _somewhat_ alive."

D'Hoffryn glanced over sheepishly at the shaman.

"Plus I miss Anyanka," the demon said quietly. "She wasn't a vengeance demon when she died, and because she didn't perish by magical means, I'm not allowed to resurrect her myself." D'Hoffryn shrugged. "But I think this makes a fine loophole, don't you think?. You and I both get what we want, and I'm not out of a job."

As much as Xander hated to admit it, there was logic in the demon's explanation.

"Are you familiar with the story of Sineya?" The shaman's question seemed to come out of nowhere, confusing an already overwhelmed Xander brain, so the old man clarified. "The First Slayer."

"Mmm, oh yeah. Badass rasta mama with a slayer-sized chip on her shoulder, right?" When the shaman nodded, Xander went on. "She got chained down and shot up with some demon essence, if I have the story right. That's how the slayer line started. I caught the Tim Burton animated version. The way I hear it, Buffy's live action screening was much more...realistic. Fun times had by all. Not real sure how that's relevant here, though." He turned back to D'Hoffryn. "Hey, can go back to the whole run the race, make a wish, save the world thing again? 'Cause I-"

"That's exactly what I'm _trying _to do, Xander," interrupted the shaman. "The Shadow Men who performed that ritual...the ones who gave the First Slayer her powers? They were my brothers."

"Brothers?" Xander asked, wondering whether he meant in a blood relation sense—which would, of course, make him ancient—or in the fraternity sense, as in _Delta Beta Shaman: Membership with a vision_.

"My brethren," the old man agreed, clarifying nothing. "They imbued the First Slayer with extraordinary gifts." He sighed. "Using methods hardly better than the demon from whom they stole the powers. But desperate times call for desperate measures, Xander, and like D'Hoffryn just said, we're desperate."

Xander's head tilted, a confused look on his face as he looked from the shaman to the demon and back again to the shaman. "So, what, you're gonna chain me up in a cave, stuff me full of demon stardust, and force me to make a wish?"

"Oh, there will be no forcing, Xander. You have my word. The choice will be left up to you...though I suspect I already know what that choice will be."

Xander raised his eyebrows expectantly but didn't reply.

"One," said the shaman, "you want Anya back. Two, you've always felt that you were less..._special_ than your friends. Am I right?"

Xander nodded, acquiescing. "And lemme guess," he said with a mocking lilt steeping in his voice. "I _am_ vewy vewy special, too."

The shaman nodded, unmoved by the sarcasm. "You _are_ special. I've said it already, but I can make you _see_ it, too. I can make you more _like_ them, and he"—the shaman pointed a finger at D'Hoffryn—"can make you more _with_ them."

Xander grunted noncommittally.

"There's a race of demons called the Splenden that possesses extremely powerful telepathic powers. I can give you the essence of this demon...put it inside you. And combined with the powers that already reside within you, with proper cultivation, they can sustain you through the journey you face. You can win." The shaman looked deep into Xander's eyes. "They are the key to your victory, Xander. Without them, there is no hope of defeating the evil within Layla."

"Au contraire, mon frere! You've already placed a shit ton of faith in this second rate sidekick. Now you're saying that some demon's mind-reading mumbo jumbo is the only way to stop the world from ending? How does that even make sense? And hello? Not interested in becoming a demon!"

The shaman held up a hand. "It's only the demon's essence, Xander. Its powers, not the demon itself-"

"Though the Splenden, incidentally, is what you White Hats might call a _good _demon," D'Hoffryn interrupted. With a chuckle, he added, "Not that that makes any difference to _you_. Demons are as demons do, right?"

Xander scowled.

"Your Slayer carries the essence of the Shadow demon within her," reminded the shaman. "And your Anya—she was a Vengeance demon for almost a dozen centuries." Old eyes peered into young. "Does that make either of them any less human?"

Xander sighed. The argument was always the same. "No. It doesn't. But it doesn't make it any better. It's still me getting knocked up by a disgusting, evil creature."

"It's a gift, Xander, not a curse. One that's freely given and that will only work if it's freely accepted as well," said the shaman.

"Y'know, the sooner you face the inevitable, the better," advised D'Hoffryn. "The Splenden who's shared himself with us has been connected to you since before you were born. George has always known you'd end up here. He's the one who came to me in the first place."

"Wait...I'm being given powers by a demon named George? _George?_" Xander asked. "Why not something cool like Beetlejuice or Pukefury or...I don't know, Grolf?"

* * *

The shrill chirp of his cell phone was the only thing keeping Rupert Giles from the sleep his body craved. He'd let it ring—the quilt pulled up over his nose, a frustrated arm thrown over eyes he was finding harder and harder to keep shut—through two full cycles, straight to voicemail. The caller had yet to get the hint.

It had been such a long day...expense reports and new registrations and health insurance reimbursement forms and continuing education requests…. The mere thought of all of the paperwork still awaiting his attention made his head spin in circles, his lungs short of breath.

He was only trained to prepare the Slayer—that's _T-H-E_ Slayer, full stop—to fight demonic forces, but when he'd become responsible for an _army_ of slayers, he'd carried on, as expected and without complaint. _Up and at'em, Atom Ant. A watcher's duty never ends! _But for the life of him, he couldn't recall agreeing to push papers like some bloody desk clerk.

His neck was always dreadfully sore from the hours bent over the keyboard, his eyes always ablaze like he'd branded them with smouldering rods. He believed in the Council and what they were rebuilding, but _dear lord_, he needed a holiday.

Preferably somewhere secluded and technologically regressive.

With a good deal of Scotch.

And no cell phones. Like the blasted device that was now at the tail end of its fourth cycle of chirps.

Grumbling, Giles looked to the clock on his right. He'd been asleep less than two hours, and wake-up loomed only that much more ahead of him.

_Four hours. I'm too old for this rubbish_.

Rupert had just enough patience left to grab his mobile, flip it open, and glance at the caller ID. Cleveland area code. A slayer. He sighed resignedly, tapped the green button to engage the call and raised the device to his ear.

"Ah, yes? Hello?"

"Oh, thank god you're there." Faith's voice was raspy, panicked. "We've got a mondo dilemma, man."

He groaned, and with the phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder, he used one hand to rub his eyes awake, the other to reach for his glasses and place them on his nose. "Faith, have you any idea what time it is here? I've had a remar-"

"Yo, Dr. Chinwag," Faith interrupted, "I didn't call to chat. Buffy's on her way here. I need your help, stat."

Giles rubbed his eyes a second time from under the lenses of his glasses. "Well, I rather expected she'd be in L.A. a while, Faith, but I don't see how that means-"

"Not coming _home_, G." Faith interrupted again. "Coming _here. _And she sounded weird. Said somethin' about pink Barbie cars and a fat bitch and a...shit, I don't know, Giles. Goin' all poetic and rhymin' about killin' Willow and-"

"She _what_?" That did it. He pulled the glasses from his nose threw them to the side table, jumping to his feet. He ran to his armoir to dress.

"Yeah, _the witch is a bitch killed in a ditch_," Faith recited. "Somethin' like that."

_Killed?_ "Bloody hell."

"Y'got _that_ right. So I tried to keep her talkin'," Faith continued. "See if I could get a read on where she was, what was goin' on, y'know?" The dark slayer paused and sighed. "Giles, my spidey sense has been goin' ape shit since she called, and it's getting worse and worse the closer she gets. I can _feel_ her. Only it's not _Buffy_. Something really wrong here."

Giles reminded himself that Buffy was trained in self-control. She knew how fend off possession. Whatever it was that Faith was feeling, it would be explained and everything would be okay.

_Oh, who are you trying to fool, you daft berk? _

"What else did Buffy say, Faith?" His heart was twisted in knots and he felt like he couldn't breathe, so he was surprised at how calm his voice sounded.

On the other end of the phone, Faith took an audible breath. "She told me she had something to do and that she'd see me soon. Then it was bye-bye, Buffy."

"She hung up?"

"Big ol' click, yep."

"And that's when you called me?"

"Oh, uh, no," Faith answered somewhat sheepishly. "I called Angel. Well, no, that's not right. I called Angel's office, Angel's apartment, Angel's cell...Fred's house, Fred's cell, Wes's, Gunn's, Harmony's...Christ, G, I tried 'em all. And I got no one. _No one_." Faith let the word hang in the air for a second or two. "I'm tellin' you, man, I let that shit ring and ring. Called each of them at least a half dozen times."

A quick bit of a arithmetic put it just before 10 pm where Faith was. It was even earlier on the west coast where Angel lived, certainly not so late that _someone_ wouldn't have been around to answer Faith's call.

"I finally got Lorne," Faith was saying. "But the connection was really, really crappy. Turns out he was underground."

"Underground?"

"Mm-hmm. When I asked him if he'd seen Buffy, he said he was underground...hidin' from her."

"Hiding from...wait, her who?"

"Her, Buffy."

It was Giles' turn to sigh.

"He said L.A.'s gone off the deep end, G, that the whole city's goin' cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, fightin' and killin' each other. And that it was because of Buffy." When the watcher didn't answer, Faith added, "He said it started when she walked into that fancy wolf and ram office."

The line was quiet as the words sank in.

"She, uh...she dusted Angel, G. Lorne says she did it without a second glance. Just staked him and turned to the next, like it was nothing."

He'd sensed a rift between the two ex-lovers in the days after the battle in Sunnydale, but surely that wasn't enough for... _Oh, my darling, darling Buffy, what has happened to you?_

"Lorne didn't stick around to watch what happened next," Faith said, taking a breath before she kept speaking. "Can't say I bla-"

But she didn't finish the sentence, her voice hitching like she'd been ruthlessly gagged, then she fell into a violent coughing fit that just didn't seem to want to end.

"Faith? Faith! Faith! Are you all right?" Barking rasps were wracking her body, leaving her gasping for breath in between, and each time he said her name, he screamed louder so he could be heard. He was becoming increasingly worried. "Faith, can you hear me? Are you all right? Are you all right, Faith? Faith?"

The other end of the line suddenly went silent, one breath of nothingness turned into five, dragging into ten and then twenty agonizingly long seconds before her he heard her pick up the phone again.

"Faith?"

"I'm here, G. I'm here," she stammered weakly. "I just...wow, that was so _weird. _Like something was-" She coughed a few times more, clearing her throat.

But she didn't finish her sentence. The sound of a door reverberated over the phone line, a quick open and then slam of solid wood in the background. The brunette slayer gasped.

"Hiya, Faith!" The voice was perky and fake and oh-so-hollow, in way that made Giles' heart ache. _Buffy_. "Whatcha doin'?"

Giles yelled, "Faith! Is that Buffy?"

"Why, yes, I do believe it _is_ my sister slayer, Gilesy," Faith replied, and just like that, gone was the voice of a concerned friend, replaced with the empty acerbity of the Slayer. "Yo, B. Figured you'd be here soon. What's shakin'?"

"Faith, please," Giles begged into the phone. "What's going on? Let me speak to Buffy! Please, Faith! Put Buffy on!"

She didn't respond, though he could hear the rip of fabric as something heavy fell to the floor. A few seconds later, Faith cried out. "Ow! Fuck!"

"Faith! Are you okay?" Giles pleaded, helpless. "What's happened? Faith!"

Still no response, then Buffy's voice resonated, and though she didn't appear to be far from the phone, she was speaking too low to make out her words.

"Faith! Buffy! Girls, will one of you _please_ pick up?" Still nothing but muted Buffy-speak. "Hello? Hello!" Giles pleaded. "Faith! Buffy! Can you hear me?"

Silence.

"Yeah, B," Faith finally replied, her voice drenched in sarcasm proof to Giles that she was, at the very least, still coherent. "I heard somethin' like that from a mutual friend of ours. Finally had enough of ol' Fang Face, huh?"

Buffy's reply was quick and low, and whatever she'd said, it elicited an immediate reaction from Faith.

"You what?! What do you mean you-? You bitch! You fucking no-good skank-ass bitch! What'd you-" There was a huge crash and then Giles heard Faith curse again. "Fuck!"

Buffy laughed, and it was an evil cackle that was painfully grating to Giles' ears, a malevolence in her always-sweet valley girl lilt strangely foreign. And terrifying.

"Faith! Faith, are you all right?" Giles shouted desperately. "Faith, please! Are you okay?"

"I've got an idea," he suddenly heard Buffy say, and this time her voice was clear, like she was speaking directly into the mouthpiece. Or standing right next to—perhaps right over—a prone Faith.

Which definitely wasn't a good thing, he realized, and his fears were confirmed when the next sound he heard over the phone line a deep, suffering grunt from Faith. The kind of sound a whoopee cushion makes when all of the air gets expelled at once. The kind of sound the human body makes when it's kicked in the solar plexus.

"Faith!" Giles yelled in panic, certain that this time she'd been injured quite badly. "Faith, are you alright? Buffy, Faith, one of you! Please! What's happening?"

Besides a handful of slaps—skin impacting violently upon skin, no doubt—he heard only his heart pounding in his ears. And his own voice, screaming, over and over again: "Faith! Faith! Buffy! Please!"

Faith's handset dropped, nearly popping his eardrum, and he jerked the mobile away from his ear as if it had grown teeth.

"Faith!" He shouted. "Faith! Faith!"

But the line was silent.

And this time, his phone clicked as the extension disconnected.

It still took him several minutes to stop screaming Faith's name.


	9. Come Let Me Clutch Thee

**Chapter Eight: Come, Let Me Clutch Thee**

"You know, your vampire was-"

"He's _so_ not _my_ vampire." Xander's interruption was immediate.

"The vampire," the demon repeated, a bit louder and with an exasperated roll of his eyes, "was a rather..._integral_ part of your destiny. The last piece of the puzzle, if you will, had you allowed him to be." He shrugged in mock nonchalance, gesturing with a hand around the hut. "In fact, you might not have ended up here if you had."

"Just a bit of 411, friend," Xander rebutted. "Remember the whole throwdown with the First? Spike was the pasty dude with the bling, all front and center-like. I don't know about you, but I'd say that made him a pretty big part of the whole destiny pyramid."

"And just _think_ of where you'd be now had you let him on the varsity pep squad a little earlier," said D'Hoffryn, flashing wide jazz hands. Then he shrugged again and added, "But, I suppose...better late than never." The demon pumped an enthusiastic fist into the air. "Go Team!"

"All right, D'Hoffryn," the shaman warned. "You've said enough."

D'Hoffryn lowered his hand, nodding his acquiescence to the shaman though he didn't take his sharp eyes off Xander. The bite was out of his voice when he spoke again, though. "It's not the stars that hold our destiny, Mr. Harris, but ourselves. And things can get a bit obscured when there's prejudice blocking the view. You're being given a second chance. Do the rest of us a favor and give _him_ the same as well. A bond between him and the Slayer is the only way-"

"Okay then," the shaman interrupted, raising his hand to an astonished Xander's shoulder, his voice a little bit too bright in a clear attempt to distract. "If you are quite ready, Xander, we'll begin the ritual."

* * *

She'd spent a million millennia just a hair's breadth away from the rest of the corporeal cosmos, but Layla had never quite grown accustomed to the constant ache of isolating hunger. Year after year of loneliness, wandering in solitude, a knife of betrayal thrust constantly into her gut, feelings of rejection and overwhelmingly incapacitating emptiness.

So now that she'd finally crossed back over, it was jarring to realize just how _full_ a body could feel. A mere five moons she'd been in this dimension—hardly time to assuage the nagging famine burning holes in her belly after endless eons—and she already found herself feeling simply tumescent. Swollen. Engorged with the gluttony of consumed despair and anguish and rage. Drunk with the anticipation of an impending reunion with Majnun, knowing she'd soon feel his strong arms wrap around her after so very, very long without him.

As she had countless times before, she cursed Father's name, for he had been truly remiss in his curse. It had extended far beyond the reach he'd intended, into unknown lives, untold futures. She knew he'd been furious with her, but she was equally certain he'd not cast the curse intending the prison to bind her mate as well...bind him into an equal, separate oblivion in the process. Yet he had.

She'd waited ages for recourse, to reclaim the destiny she'd been denied. The one Father had poached by his ignorance, his insensitivity, his inability to understand the _truest_ form of love.

_Destined_ love.

She ground her clenched fists into the sides of her thighs, closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The scent of death around her, of the dried trees and the ashen grass, carried with it a sense of calm that drew exasperation from her veins and settled her nerves. For as powerful as her will might be, as boundless her ardor, she didn't _dare_ appear impatient. Layla couldn't risk the possibility of angering the Fates, not if there was to be any hope of retrieving the love she'd lost all those ages ago.

A walk would do her good. A breath of the decomposing air to fill her, relax her, set her mind at ease, steady her nerves for what was to come. For there was much left to do.

Preparations to be made.

Rituals to be performed.

A champion to select.

A champion to sacrifice.

* * *

"No time to waste!" The shaman said, rushing to the front door to retrieve his wooden staff and then scuffling back to the center of the hut where D'Hoffryn and Xander still stood. The old man nodded to the demon, indicating his readiness, and D'Hoffryn responded by swinging his arms upwards, his robes whooshing out, driving a solid cylinder of power up from the hut's packed dirt floor to encase all three of them.

Before Xander even had a chance to ask what was happening, the shaman's straw hut vanished, and he was standing in the middle of an empty cave, surrounded by layers of limestone. Tiny conduits and tunnels, much too small for a full grown man, surrounded him. There was the sound of subterranean water flowing, dripping out like a pulse several hundred feet away. The cave walls seemed to expand, contract, then expand again, vibrating the air into a thick soup as the remnants of power D'Hoffryn had expelled for the trip slowly dissipated.

Xander's knees went wobbly, and he struggled to straighten his legs beneath him. Took a few breaths to acclimate himself. He scowled when he realized both the shaman and D'Hoffryn seemed unaffected, moving about the cave as if they'd only stepped between rooms in a house.

A light-colored basket, hand-woven and definitely very old, stood in the middle of the cave's expanse. D'Hoffryn walked over to it, reached into its belly and removed a thick slab of chalk, which he used to draw a circle, wide and round in the center of the cave. Returning the chalk to the basket, he then pulled out branches of all thicknesses and lengths, spreading them by handfuls on top of the chalk line...Xander guessed it was probably to further strengthen the ritual's protective circle.

For a moment, Xander was struck by the oddity of Anya's ex-boss engaged in manual labor, then the demon looked up, noting Xander's furrowed eyebrows, and muttered, "You could help, you know."

Xander rolled his eye, wincing when the shaman chuckled, then reached out to accept the handful of branches from D'Hoffryn. He bent to arrange the sticks end to end until they'd circled back to the first cluster.

"Hand me what you have left over, Xander," the old man quietly ordered, stepping into the circle and seating himself, knobby knees bent to either side and feet tucked beneath him. His arm was extended in supplication, and Xander passed him the last of the sticks. The shaman placed them on the ground in front of him, murmuring a quick incantation, and the dry wood popped, sparked, and lit aflame.

A few sprigs of fern were placed on top of this, another few murmured words and the wave of the shaman's hand conjuring a wisp of smoke that danced up, swirling around his bony fingers in a loving caress, filling the cave with a lovely fragrance that reminded Xander of freshly baked spice cookies.

As if he'd read his mind, the shaman smiled, then started to chant, his tongue clicking strangely, adding a soothing, somewhat melodious accompaniment to the far-off staccato of dripping water.

_tra-yam-ba-kam ya-jaa-ma-he  
su-gan-dhim pu-shti-var-dha-nam  
ur-vaa-ru-ka-mi-va ban-dha-naat  
mrit-yor-muk-sheeya maam-ri-taat_

After an encore, the chant came to an end, the fern little more than dusty ash atop a pile of still-burning branches. The shaman removed a wooden box from the basket beside him, a roughly hewn, simple rectangle of timber, no bigger than Xander's arm. Its surface was dry, variegated, knotted. The old man handled it carefully, stroking his hand lovingly down each side and whispering like a parent to a newborn infant.

"If you're ready, Xander," the shaman finally said, looking up from his precious box and meeting the younger man's eye, "I'm prepared to begin the Splenden ritual."

If Xander's anxiety was evident, the old man made no acknowledgement, simply holding out a hand to the demon standing nearby. As if reading his mind, and silent but for the shuffle of his robes against the dirt floor, the demon reached to the cave wall, then handed the shaman his long walking stick, retreating once again into the shadows.

"Okay, Xander, now I'm going to do the ritual that invites the Splenden into you," explained the shaman, gesturing with his hands in an invisible line from the top of the box to the center of Xander's chest. "There's no reason to be afraid. When there is consensus between both the giver and the receiver, it doesn't hurt. I promise."

"Famous last words," Xander breathed on a nervous chuckle.

"You have my word," he assured him, lifting his arms to begin.

"Yeah, but see, it's not even that, you know?" Xander's rambling broke the calm. "I mean, c'mon...you take a sword to the gut one time too many? Pain's not as big a deal. It's just that...I don't know, man. I guess I'm suddenly feelin' a little…." He searched desperately for the right word, then switched gears. "See, a fella like me has trouble with the whole _trusting_ part, know what I'm sayin'? I mean...all right, so I've got these two guys, right? One of them's a demon I _know_ has had a murder boner for my best girl. The other one? Total stranger, just took me on a Jedi mind fuck to who-knows-where, tells me the world's comin' to an end and I'm the newest Chosen One." He shook his head again. "You know my history. Isn't it a little more likely you guys're both lying and I'm about to...I don't know...turn into an evil demon who takes a nosedive down the maw of hell?"

"Given your track record," considered D'Hoffryn, stroking his banded beard. "I can see why you'd come to that conclusion." His mouth turned up in a wicked fanged smile.

"See?" Xander asked the shaman. When the old man simply stared back at him, Xander put his hands on his hips and took a breath. "Look, I get that something big's about to go down. Even _I_ can feel it. And, yeah, I know I've got nothing left to go back to, and I've still got a shit ton of stuff left to lose. I know I'll go down fighting, whether it's for Anya or Buffy or Willow or...and if there's a possibility that...that I can-" He shrugged, took another deep breath. Ran his hand through his hair. "My heart's completely in it. It _really_ _is._ I'm just havin' a little bit of a hard time convincing my testicles."

The scent of magic was heavy on the air, growing heavier still as Layla made her way through the halls to the front of the academic institution she'd made her temporary living quarters. The scent of sandalwood...and sage and cloves and thyme and burnt calamus. Strong vapours undoubtedly left behind by a hundred dark spells, stewing and soupy in the air.

Layla smiled as she closed her eyes, concentrating on the taste as she breathed it in, enjoying the distinctly familiar perfumes assaulting her senses. Oh, yes, she'd made the right choice in letting the sorceress live. The right choice, indeed.

It was upon this thought that she strolled out of the lobby of the university's main hall and into the world outside, prowling under a sky black as night though it was only a few minutes past noon. Layla shut her eyes once more and reached out with her senses. She only sensed the Red Witch. No other heartbeats for several miles.

_As it should be._

A few steps more, her hips swaying sensually, her lover's name in her mind as she sashayed dreamily on the balls of her feet. At the fountain in the courtyard, she paused, bent to seat herself upon the cement structure, her skirts billowing out about her, mahogany hair dancing in the wind. She leaned sideways, reaching into the empty fountain reservoir to run her hands over the rough cement, lost in thought.

_Majnun…._

A roar erupted from the depths of the building she'd just vacated, interrupting her musings, turning the ends of her lips into yet another satisfied smile. The wave of power roiling up and out of the building's front doors was followed by a billowing cloud of smoke, thick and odoriferous as it poured from the open windows. The witch had been hard at work, practicing nonstop, for days and days. Honing her powers. Absorbing the darkness.

She was nearly as powerful as Layla herself. It would be a pity to lay waste to such an impressive asset. Necessary, of course, but a pity.

Which made her wonder again...would it be the Red Witch or the Slayer who'd ultimately meet her doom? Which of these revered champions would provide her with the anguish required to initiate the ritual properly? She intended to open the gates to the hell dimension where he'd been sent. Wanted nothing more than to free him from this bane of a curse under which he, too, had been imprisoned the moment her father incarcerated her.

After all this time apart, to have him with her….

To see his dark eyes and feel his strong arms...

To pry him from the cold-

A massive quake wracked the earth, a wave of nausea taking what little breath she held right out of her lungs. The shaking ground tore cracks in the concrete, and Layla fell from her perch on the fountain's ledge. Her head hit first, at the tender crown, sending stars and explosions of light into the backs of her eyelids, making her eyeballs feel like they'd vibrated out of her head. She opened her eyes, struggling against the dizziness for several seconds before it cleared...and just in time to watch what was left of the fountain crumble down on top of her.

Xander's gut felt like it was filled with squiggly wiggly creepy crawlies. He was terrified to the power of ten, and more freaked out than he'd ever been before in his life.

When he got scared and freaked out, one question _always_ made him feel better: _What would Buffy do? _

No matter the baddie, no matter the crisis, he could always answer that one. And now, as he closed his eye and his breath grew short, as he felt his legs shaking and the fear rise from his toes, he let the thought of his best friend calm him—which it did, immeasurably, as it always had before. For when she had no other choice, Buffy always braved the fight. Always forged onward. And so he, too, would also be brave.

He steeled his chest, nodded once to no one but himself, took a breath, and opened his eye.

He looked at the shaman and nodded twice again.

A wide, toothy smile made the old man's eyes even brighter, shiny with pride and approval. He began pounding his staff rhythmically on the ground, chanting in time to each stroke. Unlike the last ritual, there were no distinct words or strange clicking sounds in this chant. Just the same, hypnotizing intonations, over and over...and over and over again.

_Ho-ah. Ho-ah. Ho-ah. Ho-ah.  
Hey-ah. Hey-ah. Hey-ah. Hey-ah.  
Ho-ah. Ho-ah. Ho-ah. Ho-ah.  
Hey-ah. Hey-ah. Hey-ah. Hey-ah._

It didn't take long. A black, smoky substance rose up out of the wooden box and snaked itself around Xander's feet, tickling him, winding under the hairs on his legs and beneath the hem of his shorts, crawling up inside of his boxers and over the crack of his ass, under his scrotum, up his abdomen. It was cold and hot and slimy and dry, tingling and chilling and burning him all at the same time. He struggled not to scream, not to jump out of the circle and run away.

As the essence wound its way up his body and entered his nose, his ears, his mouth, he had just enough time to take a deep, thick breath of cool cave air before it crept down into his body, entering him from every open orifice, meshing itself with his soul.

For what seemed like several minutes afterward, the earth shook in a quake stronger than he'd ever experienced back at home. There was color everywhere, rainbows of it, dancing off of every wall, down into the dirt, around every crevice of stone. Prisms of color creating halos around the shaman and D'Hoffryn, dancing in little pulses, like the heat of summer on black asphalt, as his being merged with that of a powerful other.

Then his eyelids snapped shut of their own accord and the space within his mind exploded.

* * *

Layla crawled gracelessly up and out of the rubble, her temper flared, her senses on full alert.

That had been no typical quake of the earth, of that she was certain. Something was amiss.

She'd done everything right. She'd located the prophesied Wasteland of the Sun, subdued a champion to cull forth the spirit of her beloved. _Two _champions had she, in fact...one to spare, both of them dispatched on their separate paths of ruin...preparing for their roles, fattening like calves for the slaughter.

Layla sought, immediately found the Slayer's presence, reached out to her over the bond she'd forged between them. Yes, there she was, miles away but nearing by the second, Layla could feel her...could taste Buffy's rage building as the blonde made her way back, maiming and killing, building the anguish within, feeding it all back to Layla across the bond.

It wasn't the Slayer.

Layla reached out in the other direction, feeling for the thread binding her to the Red Witch, deep in the bowels of the college. Aye, she, too, was safe, building the magicks and feeding her rage, growing the anger and hatred within her as spell after powerful spell was cast. Channeling, reveling in these strongest of black rituals, indulging and enraptured within the dark, dank chamber into which Layla had abolished her.

It wasn't the witch.

Assured both champions remained in her safekeeping, Layla's concerns lessened slightly, though she still wondered...if not them, what was the threat that caused the earth to tremor? She felt as if the dimension was changing, transitioning, reforming around her...

As if in answer, the earth rumbled through another cluster of quakes, and the nausea returned, dropping her belly—then her knees—to the cement. Layla waited out the shaking, then she marched through the front doors, straight down into the far corners of the basement, where the Red Witch's power was burgeoning, growing, souring.

A light snack, perhaps. A little skim off the top—the sorceress had a near endless supply, after all—and then she'd figure out who she needed to go after next. She'd waited too long; she'd not stand by as her destiny was laid to waste.

* * *

A sharp slap across his face made the colors swirl behind his eyelids, twisting and swooping and rocking from side to side like some kind of psychedelic break dance. The rainbows wrapped him in warmth, a cozy, comforting, half-drugged feeling he was hesitant to abandon.

It made his brain spin, his heart sing, his body feel as if it was floating...

"Xander? Xander, are you with me?" The shaman's deep baritone resounded, and Xander felt a firm hand grasping the apex of his right shoulder.

At the touch, that very second of contact, a fireworks show detonated behind Xander's eyelids. Hundreds of tiny sparks, glimpses of people and colorful places, bursts of sounds with which he was unfamiliar...

A quick flash of a beautiful woman with hair the color of daffodils.

The flare of green leaves, yellow and orange foliage.

The chirp of birds, the purr of a cat. Children laughing in the distance.

A flicker, just a fraction of a moment, of long ribbons and gowns of soft velvet. Of skirts flowing with rich magentas, emeralds, and sapphires.

Then the acrid smell of burning flesh. Lava, stinking like death and flowing over the earth, scorching the world and the space behind his eye.

"Mmmph," Xander mumbled, shoving roughly at the hand in an effort to dislodge it from his shoulder. The moment he'd shed the touch, that intense feeling of scorched earth, the smell of burning flesh...it completely disappeared, and he returned to the previously scheduled acid trip of behind-the-eyelid fireworks and rainbows.

"Xander?" the shaman prompted again, this time in a smaller voice. "You back with me, boy?"

"Mmm, yeah, man. I'm here. I'm here. Just...just gimme a minute. It's like a...a Skittles factory exploded in here or something." He was slurring, and his voice sounded as rich to his ears as the words sounded silly. He giggled at both.

"Look at me, Xander. No, _look_ at me. Open your eye." The shaman waited a beat, slapped Xander's cheek softly when the younger man failed to respond.

Another flash passed through Xander's mind, this time much too fast to make sense of more than the blink of lights.

"Xander, please," the old man repeated firmly. "There's isn't time for this. Layla knows. She's sensed something is wrong."

It was the name did it—_Layla knows—_the name that awakened a part of Xander's consciousness that was drowning gloriously below the colors and images and dancing and floating. His one eye shot open, instantly aware of his surroundings.

"O-o-o-o-o-o-okay, that was...interesting," Xander muttered, his head still swimming as he stood, slow and not-quite-steady, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck from side to side. "I'm...I feel weird...kinda different. Stronger. No, lighter. No, more...I don't know...just _fuller_? Izzat what's supposed to happen?"

The shaman stepped back, his eyes drifting out of focus for a moment, roving over Xander's body as the young man stretched, brushed the dust from the cave off his ass, his hips, his legs. After several seconds, the old man nodded and said, "Yes, it worked. Your auras have been merged. You say you feel stronger, maybe more coordinated?"

"Yeah, I—" Xander rolled his neck a few more times from side to side. Slapped his chest with his palm a few times. "Like there's more than just _me_ inside here, but it's still all _me._ Does that even make sense?"

From the shadows, D'Hoffryn emerged, chuckling as he clapped his hands in front of his chest. "It does, boy, it does indeed." Then he turned to the shaman and said, approvingly, "You did it. You really did it. I honestly didn't think you'd pull it off. Well done, my good man, well done." He pulled a piece of paper money from the pocket of his robe and held it out to the holy man.

The shaman laughed and took it with a quiet "told you so." Then, turning to Xander, he said, "In time, you will learn how to access the powers, how to call them up and use them as they're meant. For now, though, we must hurry." He turned to the blue demon, inviting him into the circle with a wave of his hands. "D'Hoffryn? Your turn."

"Wait, what? Just shove something into me and throw me to the wolves? You're not even gonna teach me how to use this thing?" Xander's voice was panicked. "What kind of training is this? No guidelines? Maybe an FAQ or two?"

"It's not quite that cut and dry, Xander," came the holy man's hesitant reply. "I'm sorry, there just no way to know how George's essence will present itself. It's up to you to learn that part on your own."

"Yeah?" Xander asked. "And, uh, just how'm I supposed to do that?"

The shaman smiled. "You take a step forward, and you learn on the way. It's the _only_ way."

"And your first step," came D'Hoffryn's addition, "begins with a wish."

"Right. So just like that? I say the words," Xander asked, "and everything goes back to the way it should be 'cause I'm wishing it that way? Badda bing, badda boom?"

D'Hoffryn chuckled. "No, you dolt. You don't just place the bid and win a new car. Who do you think I am, Bob Barker?"

"_D'Hoffryn_," warned the shaman in a low voice before he turned to Xander. "He's going to sort of...well, retill the land for you, so to speak. Give you a fresh patch of dirt so you can start over, replant the seeds so the crop grows a little differently this time. I promise, you'll receive what you deserve once you've proven you deserve it. You all will."

"And lemme guess, it all starts with me saying 'I wish whatever you want me to wish,' right?" Xander asked. The moment he said it, he wanted to stuff it right back down his throat.

D'Hoffryn clapped loudly and laughed. "Well, that was certainly a lot easier than I thought it would be." His eyes were wide with an expectant gleam and his eyebrows raised as he glanced at the shaman. It was like he was waiting for permission.

The old man nodded and smiled, raised his own eyebrows and muttered the words "told you so" a second time under his breath to the demon.

"Wait!" Xander exclaimed. "No! I didn't-"

But D'Hoffryn simply stood up straight, ignoring Xander's protest as he rearranged his robes, then stated in a voice that was regal, clear, and just a _bit_ too smug for Xander's liking:

"Wish granted."

And just like that, everything blinked away.

**END OF PART ONE**


	10. In the Name of Truth, Are Ye Fantastical

Good sir, why do you start and seem to fear  
Things that do sound so fair? I' th' name of truth,  
Are ye fantastical, or that indeed  
Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner  
You greet with present grace and great prediction  
Of noble having and of royal hope,  
That he seems rapt withal: to me you speak not.  
If you can look into the seeds of time,  
And say which grain will grow and which will not,  
Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear  
Your favours nor your hate.

~ from **MacBeth**  
(Banquo, Act I, Scene iii, Lines 53-63)  
by William Shakespeare

**PART TWO**

**Chapter Nine: In the Name of Truth, Are Ye Fantastical**

"I thought you said this skank was tough," Spike smirked, pinning the hellgod's arms from behind as Buffy pummeled her from the front.

Giles rolled his eyes. For god's sake, the demon had arrogance enough for an army.

She was, though, tougher than they'd bargained for. Glory's struggling overwhelmed the vampire, and with minimal wiggling and bucking, she broke free, kicked Buffy in the face, and then grabbed Spike's arm, flipping him over her shoulder and into the wall. He barely had time to look up before she grabbed him again, headbutted him, then threw the vampire once more, this time across the examination table, where he landed in a heap against the opposite wall. He didn't get back up this time, instead crumpling, unconscious, to the floor.

"When he wakes up," the hellgod warned Buffy with a point at Spike, "tell your boyfriend to watch his mouth."

She had her back to him, but Giles nearly laughed on the spot, imagining the look he was certain was plastered over his Slayer's face.

"He is _not_," Buffy sneered, just as Giles expected, "my boyfriend." And she punctuated the sentiment with an uppercut and then a right hook to Glory's face.

As Buffy continued to hammer her opponent with her fists, Willow and Tara stood nearby, clutching small leather bags and quietly chanting. Giles knew they were gearing up for a defensive spell, but decided an extra measure wouldn't hurt. He took aim at Glory with his crossbow, tilting the point of the arrow so it was just visible around Buffy's body.

He couldn't get a shot, though, as Buffy punched and kicked at the hellgod, blocking the arrow's path. The frustrated sigh he emitted was enough to attract his Slayer's attention. She glanced back at Rupert and nodded, acknowledging his plan of attack before facing forward and driving a kick into Glory's face.

The hellgod grabbed Buffy's boot heel before it hit its mark, smirked and said, "Hey, those are really nice shoes."

Buffy used the pause to her advantage, pivoting off the foot in Glory's clutches and pushing her slim body into a backflip, kicking Glory in the face on her way down.

"Giles, now!" Buffy shouted, diving out of the way to offer him clearer aim.

He took it without hesitation, but as it turned out, his crossbow was worthless. The arrow bounced off of Glory's stomach, leaving the curly blonde smirking and little else.

The hellgod half-rolled her eyes in Rupert's direction, leaning back casually with a sneer as she retorted, "Oh, please, like that's going to-"

But she was interrupted by Xander...or, more accurately, by the swing of the crowbar he clutched, the blow of which was directed to the back of the goddess's head. Like Giles', Xander's attempt to disarm didn't affect her, and Rupert watched, helpless, as Glory screamed "Hey!" and shoved the iron bar against Xander's throat. She looked him in the eye and warned, "Watch the hair!" before she pitched him away.

Xander came swinging toward Giles like a wrecking ball, colliding with the Englishman's center of gravity and causing both men to collapse in a heap against a nearby x-ray display.

Tara and Willow, their eyes wide with panic, continued chanting, gathering their magicks together and waiting for the opportunity to launch a conjured counterattack.

"Time to start the dying," crooned Glory, extending the crowbar in front of her chest and waving it mockingly. It was a warning to the other occupants of the small examination room. "Let's start with the whelp." And then she pitched the crowbar, long end first, toward the younger Summers.

Buffy reacted immediately, leaping with the grace inherent to the Slayer, directly in front of the javelin aimed at her sister. She intercepted it before the weapon's tip hit its mark, the point embedding itself into Buffy's shoulder as she fell to the ground with a grunt of pain.

"Buffy!" screamed Dawn.

"Get back!" came the Slayer's response as she yanked the crowbar out of her body.

"Nice catch. Is that the best you little crap gnats could muster?" Glory leered, her eyes scanning the room like the predator she was. "'Cause I gotta tell you…_so_ not impressed."

Willow and Tara sprang into action, throwing handfuls of glittery dust over Glory's head and the sides of her body. The powdery potion showered down upon the powerful blonde's curls, sticking to her face and her shoulders, coating her decolletage, her forearms, her dress. Glory glared down at the debris in utter disgust, furious. "Look at what you did to my dress, you little-"

"_Discede!"_ shouted Willow, invoking the _Be Gone!_ command in its Latin form, slamming the palms of her hands together.

Giles didn't so much as blink; Glory disappeared in a flash, and the red-haired witch crumpled to the ground, a shower of glitter following in her wake.

"Willow!" Tara lamented, racing to her lover's prone body.

In the same breath, Giles felt the weight of Xander's body lift from his own fallen form...well, no, it didn't simply lift...it bloody well _disappeared_ into thin air, the whole softly muscled mass of it dematerializing just like Glory's had.

_Poof!_

And then Xander reappeared, only this time in the very space the hellgod's silk-clad figure had just vacated, hardly looking worse for the wear if it weren't for the look of surprise, confusion, and...well, frank irritation.

_What the bloody hell?_ But there was no time to dwell on the question, as there were others in the room who might have borne injuries far, far worse than Xander's. The Watcher hurried across the room to assess the rest of the gang's injuries, his concern for Xander disappearing as quickly as the boy had only seconds before.

* * *

_Not even a word of warning, _Xander thought to himself, slapping the cold, blue tile floor upon which he now sat. _Not a single fucking word...just 'wish granted' and sayanora, Xander._

He rubbed a bandaged hand over his face, the glittery potion that stuck to his skin scraping his chin and falling down into the arm of his jacket. For a split second, he grimaced and fought the urge to whine. It was just his luck. Because if nothing else, he—

_Wait._

_Bandaged hand? Jacket?_

Xander patted his chest as if to verify his very existence, grimaced again when he realized his head was pounding...which only made him think of one, irritating thing: damn if he didn't want to kick himself. He should've known better. Should've remembered that you don't say _that_ word, that W-dash-dash-dash word...and certainly never in the presence of a Vengeance demon.

Feeling foolish, he shook his head, which only served to exacerbate the pounding within it. _Aspirin_, he thought to himself. _That's what I need._ A handful of aspirin and a nice cold glass of...

He'd opened his eyes to scan his surroundings, and as he took that first good look around, the thought of aspirin wafted away, lost on air that was cold and sterile and laced with the scent of medications and disinfectants...with magick and…and...

His heart skipped a beat. And then another.

Holy hell, he was in the hospital. With...with the Scoobies.

In Sunnydale.

He'd...merciful Zeus, he'd traveled back through time!

"It worked!" he shrieked, then grabbed at his aching head again, dropping back to the floor.

"Yep, it worked," Willow agreed, misunderstanding. "But I won't be trying that one again soon."

Blood dripped from one of her nostrils and she swiped at it clumsily as Giles and Tara bent to help her stand.

On the other side of the room, Buffy sat sprawled on the floor beside her sister. "Are you all right?" she asked Dawn. "Did she hurt you?

"Why do _you_ care?" the younger Summers sniped.

"Because I _love_ you," replied Buffy. "You're my sister."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

As the girls bickered, Xander closed his eyes and smiled, the sounds around him and the nearness of the people his heart recognized as family, as _home, _healing him in ways no oral pain reliever ever could. And as the familiarity settled into his bones, it surprised him how easily it came to him, how he could recall exactly what was going on in exactly this space in time.

_It's Buffy's birthday. We've only known about Dawn being the Key for a day or two._ _Oh, and Dawnie just ran away...that's why we're here, because she cut out and found Ben at the hospital, and he went all Glory-like. _

Xander glanced around, more and more pieces fitting together as he looked from one friend to the next.

_Although no one remembers it right now. _

He looked at Tara. Back at Willow.

_Oh, yeah. Willow just mojo-ed Glory the hell outta Dodge._

It was weird, the more he reached for, the more he tried to remember...the faster it all came back with perfect clarity, as if he'd lived it only hours ago instead of months and months and months in his past. A tidal wave of memories walloped him, one after the other, playing out like one of those old-fashioned Kinetoscopes, only on super-fast-forward speed.

_Flip..._sitting in the rafters of the Magic Box, filled with pride in how "the boy" had clocked time.

_Flip..._Olaf the Troll ransacking the Bronze as Spike suggested he sample newborns at the hospital.

_Flip..._talking Buffy into talking Riley out of leaving.

_Flip..._standing up to Tara's dad as they formally adopted their newest Scooby.

_Flip_...Dracula and his-

Maybe he'd skip remembering that one.

Every memory kicked off another, a long line of flashback dominoes, each laced with emotions that ran richly through his blood, leaving him feeling full and sated.

When he remembered he was sitting, ankle deep in magical glitter, eyes closed as he grinned like a moronic fool, right smack in the middle of the hospital, Xander took a deep breath and braced himself against the flood of visions to force some semblance of control. The images slowed to a trickle and then stopped. He opened his eyes and looked up to find that Buffy's attention was still on Dawn, Giles' and Tara's still on Willow, and Spike was sitting against the back wall, looking dazed. No one had even noticed. Not one of them. And only seconds had passed instead of the weeks and months of memories that had filled his own consciousness.

Yeah, this was gonna be weird.

For the second time in so many years, Xander watched as Buffy took Dawn's hand, flattening the other palm against her bleeding shoulder and then pressing it against the cut on her sister's hand.

"Summers' blood," Buffy explained. "Just like mine. It doesn't matter how you got here or where you came from. You are my _sister_. There's no way you could annoy me as much if you weren't."

As the two sisters embraced again, Xander turned away, not only to give them a few moments of privacy, but also because he, too, was overcome with emotion. Because his heart was overflowing with gratitude. With wonder. With…with...

_Wait. Where's Anya?_

"Anya," he blubbered, the words a little garbled and in a voice that sounded deeper, fuller in his head. He repeated, "Where's Anya?"

"Sh-she's back at the h-house," Tara stammered, staring at Xander. Suddenly her eyes went wide with shock. "Xander! Uh, y-your aura...it's-"

"Wait! Ben!" Dawn interrupted, distracting the witch and saving Xander from an awkward explanation. The younger girl's confused expression made it clear she was struggling for something just a few inches beyond her awareness. She stammered, "He-he was here. He was trying to help me, but then he-"

"It's okay, Dawnie. We'll see him again...soon," replied Xander, smirking. She wouldn't remember or understand, even if he tried to explain the Ben-Glory connection. "I'd say you can pretty much bank on him popping up as far as Glory's concerned."

Dawn simply stared back at him, puzzled.

"Yeah, Dawnie, it's okay," Buffy agreed, though she sent her own confused glance in Xander's direction. "We'll thank him next time we see him. Let's go home." As she helped her younger sister up, she cast another dubious look at Xander, eyebrows furrowed with concern and her head tilted slightly. "You doin' okay, Xan? Didja hit your head?" Drawing her hand up to her own temples, she groaned and added, "I think we could all use some rest."

Xander knew she hadn't meant to be funny, but her statement struck him as hilarious and he let out a huge guffaw. Which turned into a second and third one...and before long, had transformed into hysterical laughter.

_Am I doing okay? _He thought between deep belly laughs. _Fuck yes, I'm doing okay. In fact, I'm doing just fine. Juuuuuust fine, thankyouverymuch._

"Um, Xander," said Giles, in an effort to distract him from what he likely perceived as a fit of hysterics. He placed a hand on the small of Xander's back and said, "Come, I'll help you."

When Giles touched him, the room started flickering wildly, on and off, on and off, with sounds and images and smells and experiences. Colors and bright lights, then total darkness. Quick, loud snippets of a male's voice, then silence. The mellow aroma of Scotch whiskey, then the recycled air of the sterile hospital.

Xander closed his eyes—he had the presence of mind to marvel, _Hey, I've got two eyes!—_and fought against a wave of nausea by gritting his teeth hard, and by focusing his pupils just _slightly_ harder than that. Little dots of sharp light focuses like lasers behind his eyelids.

And he realized, purely by accident, that this flickering disco ball of information was happening only to _him_. And that he could control it...concentrate on whichever sensory feed he damn well pleased.

_What the hell is wrong with him? Has he gone mad? Did Glory hurt him?_

The voice was broadcast as if in high fidelity audio...but it wasn't the inner Xander voice he was used to hearing, but rather Giles' voice, playing right across Xander's mind, as if the Englishman had leaned over and mumbled the words in his ear.

_Good lord, _Giles' voice was continuing. _We nearly didn't make it. Any closer and Glory would have-_

In utter shock, Xander's body jerked, and though he didn't break contact, he attempted to steal a glance at Giles' face. Confirmed that, no, he definitely wasn't moving his mouth. In confusion, the older man started, the movement forcing his hand away from Xander's back.

And the Giles soundtrack silenced.

To test the water, Xander extended his hand, reaching out slowly and touching Giles on the arm. The voice started back up, that smooth British lilt in Xander's mind:

_What in the world is he-_

And then Giles' voice stopped, the very moment Xander lifted his hand from the Brit's forearm. And started again upon his next touch.

_Is he daft? _Giles' mind voice was saying.

It stopped when he lifted it again.

_Ah_, s_o that's how these lessons are gonna work_. Xander's thought came through, this time in his own voice, as he pictured the shaman's face in his head and nodded thanks to the old man's memory.

Then, with a reassuring smile at Giles, and on feet that were unusually confident and rather un-Xander-ly in grace, he made his way out of the exam room, out into Sunnydale, and home to Anya.

* * *

At the back of the exam room, Spike woke, roused from his spot on the floor by the clap of Red's hands. He peered up just in time to catch a glimpse of Glory disappearing into thin air...and Xander blinking out of sight, then reappearing where the permed skank had just been.

_What the bloody hell?_

He rubbed his eyes, shook a small bit of glass from the palm of his hand as he sniffed the air. His enhanced senses caught the hint of magick lingering on the air: the perfume of Red's and Glinda's joint powers, the remnants of Glory's enchantment, an odd layer of..._something_ he couldn't quite make sense of.

"What did you do to her?" Buffy asked Red, peering back over her shoulder as she held Dawn's head to her chest. She really was a breathtaking sight to behold, all warrior princess with a feather-soft heart.

"Teleportation spell," replied Red. "Still working out the kinks."

"Where'd you send her?"

"Don't know. That's one of the kinks."

"It worked!" shrieked Xander, in a voice that seemed more resonant to Spike's sensitive ears. The boy grabbed his head with a wince. He reeked of department store cologne and laundry detergent and sweat, but Spike could discern that unfamiliar _something_ surrounding him, intense and powerful, almost…preternatural covering the boy like a second skin. It definitely hadn't been there only minutes before.

"Yep, it worked," Willow said. "But I won't be trying _that_ one again soon." She let Glinda and the Watcher lift her, wiping her nose and swaying a bit as they settled her on her feet.

The scent of her blood roused his demon, and Spike's belly gurgled. He turned to Buffy to distract himself.

The Slayer and Dawn had begun to argue, and like it always did, the bickering drew the image of his own two sisters, Abigail and Emmaline, into his head. An old, faded photograph of a memory...of nights spent fireside, he reading aloud from Dickens—they did so love the _Pickwick Papers—_his words interspersed with his sisters' bell-like voices as they quietly bickered over favorite characters and favorite quotes, working their needlepoints atop the tufted pink loveseat...

He'd ignored their memory for decades, having buried his human life beneath the same six feet of soil into which he'd been turned. In the past several months, though, he'd been reminded of them often. Dawnie was so much like his sweet Emmie...the same stature, the same long fingers, the same shades of chestnut and cinnamon dancing over the same heart-shaped face. And _bloody hell,_ but Buffy reminded of his younger sister Abbie, with her fiery temper and all that passion in such a runt of a package.

He shook his head hard to clear the thoughts, ashamed of his namby pamby brooding with the Scoobies all around him, studying the Slayer as she flattened a bloody palm against a cut on Little Bit's hand. The smell of the sisters' blood—so similar, yet somehow so vastly different—mingled, filling the air with a sweetness that was so uniquely _Summers_.

"Summers' blood," Buffy said, as if she'd read his thoughts. "Just like mine. It doesn't matter how you got here or where you came from. You are my _sister_. There's no way you could annoy me as much if you weren't."

As the two sisters embraced again, Spike's empty chest warmed and swelled, oddly touched by the open show of emotion. Not that he'd ever admit it, of course.

When the Whelp asked after his bird, Spike got to his feet, figuring he'd had enough Scooby simperin' for one evening as he brushed the dust off his jacket. He ignored the bane of conversation going on around him until something Xander said caught his attention...some barmy bullshit about Glory and Ben popping up, sputtering about like a ninny. Before Spike could question it, Xander closed his eyes and just sat there, the oddly preternatural aura Spike had noted earlier intensifying, expanding.

Whatever it was that was causing him to smell different, he was suffused with it. Spike didn't think anyone else noticed, didn't feel the need to bring it up, but then Glinda called the Whelp out on it, making a comment about the boy's aura before the Bit's interruption distracted her.

_Int'restin',_ he thought. Perhaps he'd stick around a little longer, see how this little hen night played out.

"Um, Xander," he heard the Watcher mutter, "come, I'll help you."

The boy allowed Giles to lead him for a step or two, then he jumped backward, his scent flaring wildly for several seconds….wilder still as he touched and then removed, touched and then removed his hand from Giles' arm.

_He's off his bleedin' rocker, _Spike marveled, watching Xander reassure Giles with a crooked smile on his way out of the examination room.

"Come on," said Buffy, helping Dawn up and nodding her head at Spike. "Hey, thanks. Good fight," she told him before turning to grab her sister's hand and lead her out. "I have to get you back home. Mom's freaking out."

"Oh, is she mad about the whole fire thing?" Dawn asked.

_Fire thing?_ Spike chuckled, making a mental note to ask about that one later. B n' E at the Magic Box...liftin' the Watcher's diaries...beggin' for Spike's goriest vamp stories...settin' fires...Little Bit was turnin' into a right cheeky monkey. Between that, her brains, and the compassion she possessed in spades...

"I think you sorta have a get-out-of-jail-free card on account of big love and trauma," the Slayer was saying.

"Really? Okay. Good." After a few steps forward, Dawn spoke again. "You think she'd raise my allowance?"

"Don't push it," came Buffy's reply to her sister.

Spike chuckled again, and this time Buffy turned and replied, "Shut up, Spike."

"Hey, whaddid I do?" Spike whined.

She rolled her eyes at him, but they both knew the words lacked bite, and that they'd been uttered more out of habit than offense. They'd forged an understanding, he and the Slayer. Not a friendship, mind, but an understanding. She even pretended not to notice when he nicked a couple of blood bags off a nurse's cart in the hallway.

_Maybe there's hope_, he thought to himself. Then he flounced the wings of his duster behind him and walked out into the midnight air.


	11. That Indeed Which Outwardly Ye Show

**Chapter Ten: That Indeed Which Outwardly Ye Show**

Xander raced home, rounding the intersection of State Street and Maple Court at an almost horizontal sprint and climbing up the cement stairs in front of his building three at a time. He threw open the door to the lobby, tore through the hallway, and then stood, lungs heaving and heart nearly breaking through his chest, at the front door to his apartment.

He'd dreamt of this moment, boy howdy, had he dreamt of it. Every day. Every minute of every day. Every fucking second of every minute of every hour of every...his mind was on overdrive.

_Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod. _

It hit him that he was standing outside his apartment door. Anya was there. Alive. On the other side.

_Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod. _

He'd nearly started hyperventilating, his pulse was skyrocketing, and the world seemed to be moving in slow motion. It took hours to pull his keyring from his pocket, days to find the right key, months to get the lock to turn, and he felt the resistance of every tiny pin the key passed, the shift of metal as it rotated, the thunderous clap of the lock releasing. He pushed much too hard on the expanse of wood and the door swung open so fast it bounced against the rubber stopper behind it. The world suddenly snapped back into tempo.

And holy shit...there she was.

_Anya._

Emerging from the bedroom, ever so slowly, she leaned against the door frame with a hand perched provocatively on her hip. Gazed at him with bedroom eyes, beckoning him with the swell of her breasts as she inhaled.

_Anya._

In all of her resplendent glory, clad in nothing more than a skimpy gold bikini, her short hair held back with a gold scarf, its tail hanging over her right shoulder like Princess Leia's plaited ponytail.

Costume Night. He'd forgotten how much he _loved_ Costume Night. His cock immediately stood at attention, tenting the front of his khaki pants as she stood staring at him, tugging self-consciously at a bit of elastic pulled over a jutted hipbone, chewing on her lip.

_Anya._

She'd been dead to him less than an hour before. _Dead_. Xander was suddenly overcome, falling to his knees with eyes filled.

"Ahn," he breathed, clutching his heart because it hurt so much to use it again. It had been empty, numb, angry for so very long.

"Xander!" she shrieked, panicked, and she rushed to him and dropped to her own knees to place a soft hand upon his cheek. She stared up at him with a worried expression. "My god, are you okay, sweetie?"

_He better not be having a heart attack_, came her sugared voice in his head, her words a tad too precise even in her thoughts. _Not before I've gotten out of this outfit and had my orgasms. Gold lamé is murder on your nipples._

He smiled and closed his eyes to focus on the silk of her voice in his mind. He didn't remember finding her frankness so enchanting before, but it was infinitely more so than he ever recalled it being. And that realization was jarring. After so much time away from her, he'd long since realized he'd taken her for granted, but it only occurred to him in this moment just how much he had to atone for.

He would, though. He would.

"I'm fine, sweetheart," he told her with a gentle smile, restraining himself from reaching out to her for fear of what might happen. "I'm fine."

"Oh, Xander," she gushed, one hand covering her heart. "You could have been…omigod, you scared me! For a moment there...the way you were acting…." Anya's worried eyes suddenly went wistful. "It was like this one time, back in...oh, god, what would it have been? 1223? I've told you about it before...that time I was cursing a shepherd in the Kaskov valleys who'd been unfaithful to his wife? You should've heard her! Going on and on and on about how she wished all of his sheep would-"

He let her ramble on and stared, adoring the sparkle in her eyes, the arch of her eyebrows, the way her mouth moved around her words, the tilt of her chin. Too mesmerized to pay attention to what she was saying, she so enchanted him.

"Are you listening to me, you big marshmallow?" She poked him in the chest, and he heard, _I wonder if his penis is still hard?_

"More than you know," Xander replied with a chuckle, answering both questions at once, knowing she didn't realize it. "And I'm hard as a fuckin' rock with wanting you, Ahn. I can't even think straight. You're...you take my breath away."

She'd always been a sucker for dirty talk, and she threw a palm over her mouth, a sob escaping from behind her fingers as she launched herself into his arms.

It occurred to Xander a millisecond too late that he should have been more careful, should have warned her. It was just...well, he'd gotten so caught up in _seeing_ her that he'd neglected to think about anything else, least of all to ask her to play it slow with the touchy-touchy.

He went weak with an intense vision the very _instant_ her skin touched his, and the sensory overload stemming from Anya's full body slam hit him like a 747. It was nothing like the gently running Giles commentary he'd gotten earlier. Instead, this attack halted every message shooting over his nervous system, as if his brain was calling all the fighters back to home base to prepare for deep impact. Xander tumbled from his knees to the floor, with just enough presence of mind to roll in midair so he'd somewhat cushion Anya's fall.

He never felt his own landing.

It was the coppery tang of blood that hit him first, followed by the realization that he was no longer in his apartment but outside, stuck in some panoramic pastoral painting, surrounded by an absolute stillness and a lack of modern...well, _stuff. _Which told him this was a really-really-_really _long time ago.

There was blood _everywhere_. Dripping from the rough-shod fence posts, pooled in puddles at his feet, turning a trough of drinking water the color of port wine. Bits and pieces of human body parts littered the grass...viscera and brains, fingers, arms, legs.

He tried and found he couldn't move, couldn't speak. And in the same instant, felt an awareness in the back of his mind that told him he was viewing the tableau from someone else's perspective.

In the next second, it occurred to him what was happening.

Playing out in front of him was the memory freshest in Anya's mind.

The aftermath of one of her vengeance commissions.

_Holy shit_.

A lone sheep strolled out from behind a stone domicile, _baa_-ing serenely as it grazed, a safe distance from Xander-Anya. The animal was covered in blood—from the looks of it, none of it its own—and its pelt was knotted, twisted, dripping in rivulets of bright scarlet, dried patches of mahogany and brown. He only had a second more to study the animal before a terrified whine sent it scuttering away, drawing Xander's...er, Anya's attention in an aboutface.

A man—and he meant that in the loosest sense of the word, for he wasn't sure one could call what was left of this poor creature _a_ _man—_lay a few dozen feet away, arms and legs brutally ripped from his torso. He had one visible ear lobe hanging by a scrap of skin from the side of his skull, the top of which had been scalped and was bleeding profusely, bits of his brain spilling to the lush earth.

An enormous demon—Xander didn't know _what_ kind it was, but it looked like a cross between a sheep and a Tyrannosaurus Rex—was curled over the man's body, two heavily muscled front legs holding the human's torso still as its fang-filled mouth gnashed and gnarled over intestines spilling from on open stomach.

Xander couldn't believe the man was still alive, but he was whimpering in pain and fear, possibly attempting to beg for mercy. Judging by the odd sounds he was making and the sheer volume of blood spurting from between shredded lips, the man's tongue was gone.

Sheepasaurus bent closer, stretching downward to sample a stretch of meat on the left leg stump, then moving slightly to the right to bite down on the crotch of the man's ripped pants. The guy screamed in agony, his whole body tensing, the movement sending blood spurting faster from the gaping wounds where each of his four limbs had once been. With a powerful shake side to side, the demon pulled away, a chunk of flesh still gripped in its strong jaw as it whipped its head like a dog with a toy. Something went flying, landed with a bounce and a splash of gore on the ground beside Xander.

Xander was aware that he'd watched enough horror films to hazard a guess...had witnessed enough of the demon's attack to understand what had happened...but it still took a moment for it to fully register, bloodied and cleaved as it was. Took some time for his brain to really identify it...to fully grasp...

It was the man's penis. An honest to god, ripped from a live man's body, chunk of oh-my-holy-fuck-that's-a penis.

His inner Xander awareness wrestled with abject horror at the same time he felt Anya's chest fill with warmth. She took a deep breath, sampling the taste of entrails on the wind, and stretched a proud smile over her face. She was satisfied with a job well done. And she was feeling out-and-out _righteous_ about it.

He was _floored_. Xander had never experienced Anya like this. Had never allowed himself to consider the possibility she'd ever been ruthless, brutal, _savage_. Even though deep down inside, he knew she _had_ been.

And to his horror, it turned him on, making him horny as a motherfucker.

It was all too much, overwhelming him to the point he couldn't take it anymore. Xander fought against the images, pushing hard and with every ounce of will, with every last bit of mental acuity he could muster, and finally broke through it with a terrified scream.

* * *

Anya had launched herself at him, overcome with romantic emotion and a wave of desire at the mention of Xander's turgid penis, but the second she touched him, he'd gone limp. And not the type of limp that adversely affected the member in question, but the kind that affected _all_ of him. Weakness razed him to the floor like a big, Xander-sized wet noodle, and he was suddenly dragging her down on top of him.

The impact took her breath away, and she lay there for a moment to collect herself. He didn't respond when she poked him on the shoulder. "Xander?" Anya pushed even harder against his shoulder, his chest. "Xander, sweetie, are you okay?"

And then, out of nowhere, his eyelids flew open and he shrieked, the long, shrill scream of a madman. He placed both hands on Anya's shoulders, his legs scrambling for purchase on the floor beneath him, and shoved. Hard.

"No!" Xander screamed with eyes blank and wide from terror. "No penis!"

Anya heard the word as she went flying, colliding first with the table beside the sofa and landing on her hip. She'd have knocked her head on the table as well had she not caught herself in time. As it was, she would have rug burns on her palms for weeks.

"Holy fuck! N-n-not the penis!" Xander continued to yell.

So that was it. She understood. He didn't want to share his penis with her. He didn't want to have sex with her anymore. He must not think she was attractive anymore.

Which meant he didn't love her.

The thought broke her heart, and the emotion seeped out through her throat in a guttural sob. She tried to hold the bulk of the sound behind a hand, though she knew she was close to losing it altogether.

Before she did, Anya sprang to her feet, tripping over Xander's limp foot in her haste to escape. She grabbed her coat from the back of the sofa and swung it around her shoulders to cover her bikini-clad body, palmed her handbag from the side table, and raced to the front door.

Once she'd slipped both shoes on, she ran out into the darkness, heading home to nurse her broken heart.

* * *

Technically, Xander was awake before Anya was out the door and in her car, but he wasn't aware enough of his surroundings to realize what had happened until she was well on her way down the next block.

He was torn.

On the one hand, he'd waited so long to have her back in his arms. And he was horny as hell for reasons he wasn't quite ready to admit. Plus, the thought of hurting her in his first hour back made his heart heavy with regret. And that all made him desperate to chase after her to explain everything.

He nearly did, too.

But he was also back on that sheep farm with some poor sod's bloody fucking dick flying at him. Watching it wiggle in mid air, _flop-flop-flopping_ its way with the blood spurting everywhere, from the demon's mouth to the ground beside him. And remembered how proud she'd been to have caused it. Remembered how desperately that made him _want_ her.

And that terrified him.

It had been a long, fucked up, Doctor Who kind of day, filled with vision quests and rituals and time travel and mind-fucks and way, way too much emotion. He needed a drink. So instead of chasing after her, he made a split second decision to spend one last night alone. He'd done it for almost two years, he could make it a few hours more.

Xander rose from the floor and grabbed a half-empty bottle of Jack from the bar in the corner. Carried it to his bedroom and settled in for a night of heavy absorption.

The liquor lasted him about an hour. He was asleep—dreamlessly so, thank every god there was—less than five minutes after that.

* * *

Spike couldn't sleep.

He'd left the hospital in high spirits, chuffed with post-Glory excitement and craving a good fight. The Slayer, however, had tapped out of patrol with plans for a night in with Joyce and little sis. Far too amped to settle for a stagnant night with Harmony, he went with the old fallback—Willy's—where he settled instead for a fifth of whiskey and a few hands of poker.

A few hours later, when he finally stumbled back into his crypt, he was sauced as hell and no less abuzz with excitement, the remainder of a second bottle of whiskey in one arm and a black and white kitten under the other.

He hadn't really meant to keep the tabby. He'd originally wondered, in fact, if the chip would permit him a tasty treat on the stroll home. But then the wee thing had peered up at him with the clearest, most emerald green eyes, and he'd gone weak with want for the Slayer...and ended up with a new soddin' pet in the process.

He'd no sooner settled the kitten in front of a bowl of water when Harmony slunk out of the bedroom to announce she was still awake. She began cooing over the cat, doing her own bit of purring and rubbing all over Spike. When he shoved her off of both of them, she went running into the sewers in her negligee, shouting over her shoulder that he'd be sorry and promising it was the last he'd ever see of her. As if he'd give a shit that she'd left him. Stupid bint. More like a blessing.

At this time of the day, there was nothing but Springer reruns on the telly, and Spike was sober and wide awake before the end of Jerry's Final Thoughts. He'd already watched the latest Passions tape and didn't have patience enough for a book just then, so he threw an old towel on the floor for the kitten, blew out the candles and headed downstairs.

Maybe a shower would help. He undressed quickly, turned on the water and got under the cold cascade, pressing his forehead against the rough wall of rock as the icy stream pelted his ass and shoulders like tiny knives. He preferred hot showers to frigid, but he'd yet to come across a hot water heater he could nick easily.

Spike lathered up his hair with shampoo, washed his body and face with a bar of his favorite sandalwood soap. Closing his eyes, he tilted his head into the stream of water to rinse off the suds and it was, as usual, Buffy's face that flashed in the dark behind his eyelids. Always Buffy's face that'd been there, and if he was really truthful with himself, had been there since long before his dreams had made him aware of it.

He kept picturing her face as his hand trailed down the muscles of his chest, traveling over the dark patch of curls to grasp the base of his prick. Thighs wide, he sucked in a breath, settling into a rhythmic stroke, slowly up and down with his hand, making the shaft harder and bigger with one hand and bracing himself against the wall with the other.

He caught little snippets of her in his mind. The way her lower lip curved unevenly over her teeth when she smiled. Her brown leather pants coating those pert ass cheeks like hot fudge. The bounce of her breasts, the sparkle in her eye, the scent of her excitement. He got lost in the fantasy and tightened his grip around his cock, pumping harder, harder still from groin to tip to groin, imagining it was _she_ he was pounding into..._she_ he was buried in, balls deep.

_Spike_, she'd say, _I want you so bad. Fuck me, Spike, fuck me._

Then she'd lick her lips, lower her eyes seductively, look at him over her shoulder. Angle her ass _just so _in front of his cock, invite him even further into that tight, hot heaven between her thighs...

He came hard, spilling himself on the rocks with a roar. Too quickly over and done with.

_Get a grip, mate,_ he admonished himself a few minutes later as he toweled off. _A grip and a life_.

In all of his time as a vampire, it had never been like this. Obsessive. Addictive. All-consuming. And sickeningly so.

He'd loved Drusilla, but he'd never craved her the way he did Buffy. It consumed him all day and all night. Made him feel like he was drowning and fighting and floating, all at once.

But he knew better. She'd never think of him like that. The Slayer saw him as a monster, not a man.

Spike sighed. What a pathetic mess of a demon he was.

A few hours' kip, that's what he needed. Later this morning, he'd take the sewers to the Magic Box, hit up the demon girl and see if she knew of a spell or a potion that would help curb this shit. He needed to get the bint out of his head, once and for all, and if anyone could help him, he'd start with Anya.

* * *

When Xander woke the next morning, it was to the tune of a raging hangover, a chock-full bladder, and the guilt of a dead Anya weighing him down like elephant shit on his chest. He'd borne it every day for months now, the responsibility for not being there to save her, for leaving her to die with Dweeb Boy as her only companion. He'd never be able to do anything about it.

And like he did every other morning, Xander rolled to his side, rubbed his good eye into the pillow in an attempt to cushion the guilt, clearing it like gooey sleep boogers from his eye. He pulled the quilt Aunt Martha had sent him for his 18th birthday up over his chest, burrowing under it with the hopes that, if he closed his eyes and laid _really_ still, he'd fall back asleep and would-

_Quilt. Where'd the quilt from Aunt Martha come from? That's not possible. It's back in the crater in- _

Instantly, as it had the day before, it all came rushing back...the demon essence...the wish...the time travel...Anya. And with it came perfect clarity, for even after a night of drinking and avoiding Anya, he now knew _exactly_ what needed to be done next.

Xander jumped out of bed and rushed to the bathroom to take care of his business, then tossed back a few ibuprofen as he gathered what meager food scraps he could find in the kitchen for breakfast. Ten minutes later, he was back in bed with a bowl of stale cereal, a half-eaten container of week-old lo mein, the dregs of a flat two-liter of Coke, and his portable phone.

He dialed the first number, and though it went straight to voicemail, he knew full well Anya was sitting there, listening as he recorded his message.

"Ahn," he said. "I know you're there. Listen, I'm...uh, I'm really, really sorry about last night. I...I'll be at the store in a few hours. I'm gonna have the rest of the gang to meet me there, too. I owe you all an explanation. Just...please hear me out. Let me explain, okay? I love you."

And he hung up.

One by one, he called the rest of them...Buffy, Giles, Willow and Tara. His fingers dialed the numbers by rote, their voices filling his head and his heart with joy like nothing else ever could. He asked them to meet him at the Magic Box for an emergency Scooby meeting, and since Buffy had said to give her two hours, that's the time he requested the others give as well.

He sort of deliberately "forgot" to invite Spike...he just wasn't quite ready to cross that bridge yet. Baby steps.

Xander didn't dwell on what he'd say to them...in fact, he wasn't sure what or even _if_ they'd believe any of it. Parts of the story were pretty far-fetched for even _him_ to believe, and he'd lived through it firsthand. But if what he'd been told was true...if all of this wasn't some huge plot to overturn the universe...and if Layla actually _was_ the threat they'd said she was, well, then he needed to get a move on.

He had a soul full of demon, a head full of memories, and an apocalypse to stop.

And it was time to tell his family a little story.


	12. You Greet with Present Grace and Great P

**Chapter Eleven: You Greet with Present Grace and Great Prediction**

Xander was showered, dressed and strolling into the Magic Box with a box of donuts in his fist before the second hour was up. He'd never felt so happy, so full of life. The sun was shining, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and business inside the store was light, as was to be expected at these kinds of places in the morning on an active Hellmouth.

Anya glanced up as the bell over the door announced his arrival, anxious to greet her customer, and for a split second, she saw it was him and smiled. His heart warmed, rejoicing, and he held tight to the thrill of it when, moments later, her smile turned to a wince and her eyes filled with pain. Then she looked back down at the books in front of her.

Xander struggled against the urge to touch her, reminding himself that he needed to keep his distance to avoid a recurrence of what happened last night at the apartment. He was still overcome with the joy of having her right there, alive and within reach. It was enough for now.

He approached the register carefully.

"Ahn," he began. She didn't look up to acknowledge him. "Ahn, did you get my message?"

"Oh, I got your message, Xander," she replied icily, intent on the paperwork instead of their conversation. "I got it _loud and clear_." When she finally glanced up at him, her eyes were like daggers. "Come to rub it in a little bit more, have you?"

"No, I came to explain. And to apologize," he replied. "Anya, I'm sorry."

She rolled her eyes before averting them once again.

He'd spent enough time quarreling with her that Xander knew which words paved the smoothest path to reconciliation. Simply and directly, he said, "It was my fault completely."

She looked up and they locked gazes.

"I know I hurt you last night," he continued. "And I'm really, really sorry. I didn't mean to, and I hope you can give me the benefit of the doubt, even though I know you think I don't deserve it. And let's be honest, I _don't _deserve it," he affirmed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I take advantage of you all the time, Ahn, and I don't always treat you like I should. That's gonna change. What happened last night...Ahn, it was _not _because of _you_. I've just got a lot of shit swimming around in my head, and I'm tryin' to figure out how to deal with it."

Anya studied him, tilting her head and staring into his eyes with a puzzled look in hers. "Xander, what...what are you-"

"Xander?" Giles interrupted, calling from the tiny office behind the counter. "Is that you?"

Though Xander continued to hold Anya's gaze for several long seconds, she didn't seem inclined to finish her question, so he quietly assured her, "This isn't done," and then turned to greet the ex-librarian emerging through the doorway. In a mock British accent, he said, "Yes, 'tis I, my good man. And a fine morning to you. Pip pip!"

"Uh, yes, good morning. And how are we feeling today?"

"Oh, I've had better days," replied Xander in his own voice, stretching his neck from right to left, glancing back at Anya as he did so. "But I'm okay. How 'bout yourself?"

"I'm quite well, Xander, thank you," Giles answered. "Um, I wonder if I could speak with you for a moment before the others get here? Anya, you as well."

"Sure," replied Xander.

Though Anya's gaze trailed uncertainly from the watcher to Xander and back to the watcher, she nodded.

"It's...well, it's about Willow," Giles began slowly, and Xander knew he was gauging the reactions of his two younger companions. "I'm concerned she may be attempting spells that are a bit too advanced for a practitioner of her level." The watcher gave Anya a beseeching look. "I'm sure _you_ would agree, Anya, that trying to access powers outside the realm of your abilities...well, it can have major repercussions."

"Oh, absolutely," agreed Anya, nodding vehemently. "I can't tell you how many times I meted out a curse on some wannabe overachiever who cast a spell that was over his head. I tell ya, it's always about the big, happy ending, never about the quality of the foreplay."

Xander snickered.

"Well it is! There was this one warlock," she remembered. "He was doing some kind of fertility spell on his mistress...something about an heir apparent he hadn't gotten from his brood-mare of a wife, or some nonsense like that. Must've been, oh, fifteenth century, give or take a few," She twisted her face in thought and then flipped her wrists with a _who knows_ shrug. "Anyways, he just threw out the first words he could think of, summoned the goddess Tawaret without a care in the world. And what does he do? Instead of knocking up his girlfriend, the guy ends up turning his _wife—_who's, like 200 miles away—into a fire-breathing hippopotamus." She paused and looked from one man to the other. "Do you even _know_ what a vengeful, fire-breathing hippopotamus sounds like?" Anya sent a deliberate shiver through her body. "I'd like to see _you_ try to get a proper wish out of _that_." And she rolled her eyes again and fell silent.

"Yes, um, well..." stammered Giles as Xander let out a chuckle. "As I was saying, I'm a bit worried that Willow is attempting to manipulate magicks she's not quite ready to handle. Her powers are getting stronger, but I fear she doesn't quite know what to do with them."

"You're right." Xander nodded, and the look of surprise on the watcher's face told him the Englishman wasn't expecting such frank agreement. "What? Surely you've noticed that something _always_ goes mondo bizarro every time she casts a spell, right?" When Giles' eyebrows lifted in agreement, Xander continued. "So, yeah, Giles, I think you're right. Willow_ can't_ handle it, and she needs to learn how to soon. The way she's going, it's gonna get much, much worse before it gets better."

The watcher's expression veered from surprise into stark disbelief.

"What?" Xander asked again.

"Well, I suppose I rather expected you to stick up for her instead," came the reply. "You typically do."

"But I _am_ sticking up for her, Giles, in the only way I know how to after-" he stopped and sighed. "Look, you're Buffy's watcher, right?"

"As of fairly recently, yes," the shopkeeper replied wryly.

"Oh, c'mon, you've always been here to guide her, whether you're doing it for the Council or not. She's got the strength and the slayer powers, Giles, but it's _you_ who's taught her how to use them. She really depends on you," Xander stopped before the words _and she will soon, more than ever before_ escaped_._ He let the words he _had_ said sink into the watcher's head. "In many ways, Willow is just as strong as Buffy, if not stronger. She needs that same kind of teacher."

The guilt that flashed in Giles' eyes told Xander he'd already come to this same conclusion. So why hadn't Giles acted on these suspicions earlier, in their other timeline? At the very least, he could have mentioned his concerns to the Scoobies. So much suffering could have been avoided...

But then Xander considered where he was in this new timeline, thought about the sequence of events that was soon to occur, and any smidge of disappointment with Giles virtually disappeared.

Joyce's death. Tara's mind wipe. The Knights of Byzantium. Glory's tower. Buffy's jump.

It was enough to drive even the most focused warrior to distraction, and he couldn't fault Giles for not acting on Will's behalf. They'd all seen it happen, and none but Tara had ever done anything about it...and he knew even _her_ attempts were ultimately to no avail.

So he promised himself things would change this time around and doled out reassurances instead.

"Giles, it isn't your fault," Xander said. "You've got your hands full with Buffy, and she's only gonna need you more and more as time goes on. You can't be expected to guide Willow, too. I think it's time we get some help and nip this in the bud. We need someone to teach her how to use her powers, and it needs to happen before she goes all Dark Willow again. Do you, uh, know how to reach Althanea?"

"She's going Dark Willow _again_?" Anya's voice piped up curiously.

"I beg your pardon, did you say _Althanea_?" echoed Giles, at the same time and in an equally curious tone.

_Shit, I'm not supposed to know about Althanea yet._ He was really going to have to be careful about what he said.

But then the bell over the front door jingled, and Willow and Tara strode in, hand in hand, saving Xander from any necessary backtracking. They couldn't rightly discuss a witch's magical demise in front of the witch in question. Giles reluctantly retreated to the cash register as Anya greeted a couple of customers who'd entered behind the witches. Happy to be spared, at least for the interim, Xander knew he hadn't completely escaped. It was far from the end of _that_ conversation.

"But that's when you have to close the circle or else you end up looking like this," Tara was saying, then she stuck out her tongue and crossed her eyes at her girlfriend. They both dissolved into a fit of giggles, though Willow's grew noticeably weaker until she grimaced and stopped laughing altogether, massaging her forehead under the pads of two fingers and a thumb.

"Aw, honey," cooed Tara, placing her hand on the small of Willow's back, "why don't you go over by Xander and sit in the comfy chair. I'll go get you some tea."

It struck Xander as he watched them, as it had hundreds of times after they'd lost Tara in that other timeline, just how right the two witches were together.

Willow simply glowed, her green eyes alight with a sparkle he'd missed for more than a year, and though she looked exhausted and was clearly in a lot of pain, her happiness shone through from within. After everything she'd lost, all the suffering she'd had to endure, watching her right now, like this...it was _thrilling_.

And Tara. Sweet Tara. With her gentle eyes, hair the color of honey, the familiar, tranquil presence that complimented Willow's and grounded them all. Xander watched as she drew a gentle hand down Willow's cheek, the small smiles on both faces speaking of a private tenderness that made his breath catch.

Then the two girls separated, Tara into the back office, Willow to the table.

"How's my best girl doin'?" he asked, turning to grab a second chair for Willow's feet. He was careful to stay as far as he could, aching to embrace her but fearing what might happen if they touched. In his mind, he could hear the sounds of shrieking, moaning, suffering. The nearer and nearer he got to her, the stronger the waves of pain that lashed through him.

He braced himself hard against the sensations, knowing instantly they were coming from Willow. He needed to stay away from her until her pain subsided.

She was apparently just as anxious to be rid of it. Rubbing her temples, she said, "I'd be a lot better if the marching band up here would take a breather." Willow sighed and lowered herself into the cushions of the comfy chair, nodding her thanks as he the second chair near for her feet.

The pain became bearable, and her silent moans and screams faded as he moved further away from her.

A minute later, Tara emerged from Giles' office carrying a tray laden with proper British tea accoutrements. She set it on the table near Willow, waving her hand so the steam from the silver kettle danced merrily about her fingertips and wafted into Willow's face. The pain he'd been sharing with her numbed even further, the moaning in his head went completely silent, and as Xander recognized Tara's ministrations for what they were, he couldn't help himself.

"Tara," he called to her in a voice awash with emotion. "Has anyone ever told you you're an angel?" He smiled when she looked up at him in surprise. "Because you are. I really, really missed you." A lump spawned in his throat.

Willow glanced up, a look of confusion on a much more relaxed, openly relieved face. "Um, Xander? Are you feeling okay? You know you just saw her last night."

He acknowledged Willow with a smile and a nod, but was afraid his voice would belie the tears that threatened, so he just stood there smiling at Tara instead of responding further. The honey-haired witch studied him for several long seconds, and then her face relaxed and she smiled shyly as if she understood.

And in that moment, he thought that maybe she did.

"Thank you, Xander," Tara said quietly, and then she lowered her head and went about preparing a mug of tea for Willow, who was still glancing between her best friend and her girlfriend with a look of utter puzzlement on her face.

Buffy picked that moment to push roughly into the Magic Box, Dawn following behind her like a hurricane set on destruction.

"I did _not_!" Buffy yelled. "And anyways, what difference does it make to _me_ what you get for an allowance?"

"Oh, come on, you did _so_ tell Mom!" Dawn shouted back her.

"No, Dawn, actually I _didn't_. Mom was in your bedroom this morning while you were in the shower and she saw the burn mark on your dresser with her own eyes. _I_ didn't _have_ to tell her. And anyways, I know how to hide the stuff I've ruined in the house _before_ mom gets to it."

"Oh, shut up." Dawn sighed dramatically. "Buffy, I don't get even a penny for a month! A whole month! What am I gonna tell Janice? We were supposed to go to the mall after school tomorrow!"

"Well, then it's a good thing after all," replied Buffy simply. "You don't need to be running around with Janice where Glory can find you. You're safer at home or here with us."

"Buffy!" The word came out on an extended whine that sounded an awful lot like nails on a chalkboard. And as it lingered in Xander's ears, it was almost melodic.

The threat of tears had passed, and he chuckled. The Dawn _he_ knew was so much more somber, prone to long bouts of mourning, with concern for a deeply suffering sister and the loss of a man she'd loved like a brother. He hadn't realized just how much he'd missed _this_ version of Dawn.

Buffy rolled her eyes and sniffed the air. "Giles, you got anything besides tea in here? Is it too early to order pizza? I'm _starving_."

"Pizza's coming in a bit, Buffster, I ordered it on the way here," Xander said, shaking himself out of the reverie. He lifted a hand from Willow's neck and grabbed a donut. "Might I offer you a tasty ring of fried lard in the meanwhile?"

"Thanks, Xan, don't mind if I do." She grabbed the jelly-filled and took a giant bite. Thick red syrup burst out of either end, dribbling to the floor and down the corners of her mouth. "Oops," she giggled around a full mouth, wiping at her cheek with her pinky and licking it with a smack.

Dawn rolled her eyes. "You're such a pig. How're you so hungry when we just ate like an hour ago?"

Buffy swallowed loudly. "Can I help it if my strapping slayer metabolism gives me an empty Buffy belly? I require sustenance." She pouted for effect and allowed her bag to fall from her shoulder, then stooped to wipe the floor with a napkin. When she dropped into the chair herself, she took another giant bite of donut, peering curiously at Willow.

"How you doin', Wills?" she asked around a mouthful of the sticky confectionary.

"Oh, I'll be fine," the redhead replied weakly. "Nothing a few solid weeks of sleep won't cure."

"Aw, poor Willow," Buffy lamented, running the hand that wasn't covered in jelly over the witch's hairline. "You know, that was some pretty big league sorcery you had goin' there last night."

"Actually, Willow, I wanted to talk to you about that," added Giles. "That was an incredibly...dangerous spell for an adept at your level."

"Yeah, I guess so," the redhead agreed reluctantly, shrugging. "But then...I figure if you don't a few stupid things when you're young, you won't have anything funny to remember when you're old, right?" She smiled up at Giles with eyes big as plates, then winced when the movement precipitated more pain.

Giles looked doubtful. "Yes, well…"

The ding of the cash register provided a distraction, and the whole group turned to watch Anya finish her transaction at the counter. "We appreciate your patronage," the ex-demon said, nodding at the elderly customer she'd just served and flashing a bright smile. "Please, come back and spend more money soon."

Giles' sigh was audible and Willow rolled her eyes, but the rest of the gang shared a laugh. Anya didn't notice any of them, though, too busy closing the till and calculating the profits on her approach to the research table. Her eyes were bright with the gleam of capitalism when she seated herself.

Finally, Giles called them to attention, announcing, "If you're all quite ready…"

There was a noisy shuffling of chairs around the table, and the watcher waited for them to quiet before clearing his throat to speak again.

"Right," he finally said, "so I think we're all here now. Xander, what was it you wanted to talk to us about?"

* * *

The sewers were wet and dank, the manholes and drain covers protecting the underground tunnels from the cooler, drier air filtering through Sunnydale's trees above. Though Spike had stopped breathing back at his crypt, the taste of dank wetness sat thick on his tongue. He was happy to reach his final turn and escape the reek of rancid wastewater. He didn't draw in the air again until he'd climbed up to the next level and stepped through the door to the Magic Box's basement.

After a quick search, he found a few feathers and a handful of burba weed to stuff into his duster pocket—feathers for the tabby, burba for himself—and then climbed soundlessly to the top of the stairs, his Doc Martens leaving wet footprints on the cement behind him. Spike's hand was on the doorknob, braced to throw it open, when he realized Anya wasn't alone.

He sniffed, and could sense several signatures, knowing instantly that the entire band of Scoobies was seated at the research table, yards away from where he hid behind the basement door. The pitter patter of heartbeats was evident...some with unfamiliar pulses, random customers come to browse, others thumping out the cadences unique to Bit, the Watcher, the other Scoobies. The Slayer's was the easiest to pick out, so strong and slow and steady.

It was Buffy's voice, though, and her request for food that wafted down the stairwell first, and Spike chuckled under his breath when Dawn called her sister a pig.

_Psssh, Nibblet,_ he thought, _big sis 's no pig. 'S a bloody miracle she's even enough energy to patrol._ He pictured how thin the Slayer had grown, what with worryin' over the hell bitch, and takin' care of her sis and their mum. It was good she was feeling empty-bellied. Girl needed some meat on her bones, needed to fill out all those delicious curves just a bit. She needed to be strong if she had any hopes of defeating Glory.

The irony of his wishing the Slayer strong wasn't lost.

Spike settled himself against the wall, picking at his black nail polish in the dim light as he eavesdropped. Though he'd never admit it to anyone, the familiarity of the Scoobies' voices enveloped him like a warm blanket, and he found himself smiling at the different sounds. Laughing at the demon bird's blunt dismissal of her customers, agreeing with the watcher's concern, feeling a mite sympathetic for Red's pain. He knew a thing or two about headaches, after all, and the trouble they could cause, just as he knew she'd have to learn to be responsible for her magicks one of these days, else the witch was gonna do something she'd regret.

Then again, he wouldn't be adverse to another twirl on the bint's _Will Be Done _carousel, now that he thought about it. He'd had time to sort through those memories with a much more...open-minded perspective, and there were a number of things he'd have done differently. Least of which was make his intentions known with more than harmless flirting and a few stolen snogs...

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall.

_What are you lookin' at?_ he'd asked her, the taste of her arousal filling the air and his nostrils.

_The man I love_, she'd said coyly.

And he'd looked into her eyes, those seas of sparkling emeralds, as she'd leaned forward and touched her lips to his. She'd smelled of passion, felt like fire sheathed in the most delicate of feather-soft skin. She'd tasted like sunshine.

His daydream was cut short when, as per the usual Scooby meeting agenda, he heard the Watcher call the group to attention, his announcement followed closely by the loud shuffling of chairs. A few minutes later, Rupes cleared his throat and asked the Whelp why he'd called the meeting in the first place.

Now, Spike had lived on the Hellmouth just long enough to grow accustomed to all the little paranormal oddities it rendered. He'd seen a wider variety of demons, sensed a heavier amalgam of magical energy in the last few years of Sunnydale residence than he'd experienced in more than a century travelling the world with Drusilla...bless her stark raving, cold, dead heart. So he _should_ have been prepared for anything. Should have known that _anything_ could happen, and at any time.

Which made the shock Xander's voice evoked all that more poignant, because the boy's response to the Watcher's first official question was the last thing Spike ever expected.

* * *

Xander took a deep breath and looked around the table, unaware of the extra set of ears catching his story as he glanced from Giles to Anya, from Buffy to Willow, Tara to Dawn.

He'd missed them all, so very much, these people who had comprised every breath, every thought of his entire adult life. This was his family. Sure, the second one he'd known, but the first that came to mind with the word. The primary substance of _him_. The people with whom he identified. Their presence alone was a comfort to him, as if he was swimming in a pool of all of his best childhood memories, and he was getting pruney with a nice, long soak.

This was _home_.

And so he took a deep breath and began.

"Have any of you ever heard the story of Layla and Majnun?"


	13. Speak Then to Me

**Chapter Twelve: Speak Then to Me**

_Rome, 1937_

The lace of her frock was almost translucent as Drusilla spun around and around in the candlelight, dancing with her dolly to music only she could hear. His dark goddess was happy as a clam, a picture of serenity now that her demon was sated, and Spike was right chuffed to just sit back, smoke his cigar, and observe.

She was a study in opposites, his Dru. The face of purity, of gentle innocence, masking the malevolence of a brutal, bloodthirsty killer. Perfectly soft, pale skin stretched over the most delicate of bone structure, body hard as steel, as deceptively strong as it was strikingly female. The voice of the sweetest songbird, melodious and mesmerizing even in the absence of her thrall, uttering words laced with unadulterated evil and menace.

She was the bringer of his death, and the benefactor of his eternal salvation.

He supposed it was his sire's constant contradictions that kept him traipsing after her like a love-sick slave. He knew, clear as day, that he was love's bitch, and he wasn't afraid to admit it. And he'd never leave her, not for the rest of his godforsaken unlife, no matter which fool dared to tell him otherwise. She was his destiny, and Spike would follow her to the ends of the earth.

They'd gotten the Master's summons—Ol' Bat Face had fancied opening a Hellmouth in bloody Nowheresville, California—but had ignored it, opting instead for a tour of the Italian coastline and a sampling of the best winemakers each region afforded. Two days in Rome had been especially good to them, offering up its best in sanguinary delicacies with little to no effort required on their parts.

Point of fact, just last evening, he and Dru had been having themselves an amble down gaslit Via Portuense, and they'd quite literally stumbled upon a posh little wedding...one of a wee little brown-haired bride and a brawny chap who couldn't have been more than 18. So sweet in love were these two, and he and Dru made a hearty feast of that bride and her bridegroom, as well as the half dozen guests who'd joined the pair to witness their nuptials.

They'd awoken at dusk to find the previous night's banquet this afternoon's front page news.

Were he on his own, he'd have cut a swath through the middle of the bloody square to shout his exploits to the ends of the soddin' earth. Spike took the greatest of pride in the name he'd made for himself, and figured he probably always would. But he wasn't on his own. Not since Angelus had soul-scampered and Darla had returned to her sire. Now it was only Spike and his ebony idol...and he her one n' only caretaker, so he'd deemed it best to keep to the safety of their living quarters for a spell.

Which, in this case, meant retiring to the gilded opulence of the penthouse suite at the Grand Hotel Flora...after draining the ponce who'd rented it, of course. Nobody ever said a vamp had to live and dine like a bleedin' pauper, after all.

With his belly full, Spike reclined and watched Dru twirl around and around on her bare feet, her eyes locked on a gaggle of fat cherubs painted into the ceiling fresco in the center of the grand room.

"What d' you see, my ripe, wicked plum?" he asked her. "The paintin' talkin' to ya, is it?"

"Oh, they're not talking much to Mummy, Spoike," she shook her head and held her china doll out in front of her chest. "It's Miss Edith the pixies wish to speak with tonight."

Drusilla pulled the doll back to her breast and pirouetted away, each of her steps seductive, her hips hypnotizing Spike with promises of ecstasy and ravishment still to come.

"And what're the little pixies tellin' the dolly, pet?" he asked on a contented sigh. Spike tilted his head to get a better view of her swaying hips, palming the growing bulge at the front of his trousers.

"She says they sing songs about _you_, my lovely," was Dru's melodious, _isn't-it-obvious_ reply.

"She does, does she?"

"Mm-hmm."

And for a few moments, he watched as she stopped dancing, staring up at the ceiling and nodding every few seconds, covering a demented giggle with the back of her hand. Then she placed Miss Edith on the settee behind her, spent a moment smoothing the doll's dress and patting her silken curls, and began again to speak to the toy in a low, animated voice. Her face was drawn in an expression of the deepest concentration.

After many minutes of this, Dru finally stood up straight, smoothed her own skirt with hands that were sure and steady, and looked up to tell the ceiling in an equally sure and steady voice, "Miss Edith says it's time."

She stood still for another moment, and then nodded, saying, "I will."

When Drusilla turned to address her childe, her eyes were clear, bright. Far more lucid, in fact, than Spike had ever seen them before.

"Spoike," she said, and instead of the wandering, slightly unhinged gaze that typically accompanied a conversation with his dark goddess, Dru looked at him with an unwavering, focused stare. Slinked toward him to extend her hand and cup his cheek in her palm.

_Bloody hell, _he thought to himself, eyes wide as he struggled to interpret the sight before him. _She's cookin' on all four burners. _In the face of her seemed sanity, he gasped back an unnecessary lungful of air.

"Dru?" he asked uncertainly. "You-you with me, pet?"

"Mummy's with you, my Spoike," she assured him, and the strength in her voice overwhelmed him with joy. Spike stretched his lips into a smile and relaxed against her hand as she caressed his cheekbone with the pad of her thumb. "Don't you worry, poppet," she said. "You'll be mine for a while longer."

"Be yours forever, pet," he replied automatically. And with a slightly more awed voice, said, "You're a sight, y' know that? 'S good t' see you like this."

"Oh, my sweet William, you've still so much left to see ahead of you," she told him. "My boy has quite the destiny. A _big_ one." She giggled, and he smiled. "Have you ever met a princess?"

"Only you, Dru," he crooned. "You're _my_ dark princess."

Drusilla placed her hand back on his cheek with a sympathetic expression on her face. "But not for always, my darling. For one day, the sun will drive the darkness away, and you'll belong with your two sisters instead."

_My two sisters? _he thought, wondering if perhaps she_ wasn't _quite 'round the twist just yet. "Uh, Dru, my sisters were dead n' buried before I met you, luv," Spike reminded her.

"Not _those_ sisters, you silly, silly boy." She tittered, then held up two fingers, nails sharpened to a point, blood red and tipped in white. _"_Two _other _sisters. Ones of sun and light."

Then Drusilla raised the index and middle fingers of the other hand.

_"_Two sisters _more_ as well," she said. Then, focusing her attention back to the V-ed digits on her first hand, she continued. "The first will be yours to do with as you please, my sweet. That's Mummy's gift to you."

Spike smiled at her, deciding he was content to just play along with her, barmy or not. "You givin' me a prezzie, pet?"

"Why, that's the reason I made you," she responded distractedly, studying the two fingers of her other hand. When she glanced up at Spike, her eyes were laced with worry.

"What is it, kitten?"

"The other sisters...they bring danger, Spoike." The warning came out as a loud whisper, then she tilted her head and reconsidered her fingers. Shrugging, she added, "Or perhaps they bring life."

Drusilla's eyes suddenly went gold and her demon emerged, fangs and ridges appearing under pale forehead. "One can be vicious as a demon," she said, and then growled, low and menacing. "I think she means to play tricks with my darling boy."

"Oh, no one's gonna get ol' Spike, pet," he assured her, combing lengths of her hair off her brow in an effort to impart calm. Her demon finally receded, lulled under his stroking finger tips.

She looked up wistfully, nodding at the ceiling. "That's just as well," Dru told the rafters.

"What's just as well, Dru?" he asked, and he, too, gazed up at the ceiling, trying to find the focus of her attention. "Pet, who the bleedin' hell're you talkin' to?"

She looked down with a smile of pity, leaned in to place a kiss on the tip of his nose. "You walk in worlds others can't begin to imagine," she said, echoing words of the past. "You've always wanted something glowing, glistening." After a small sniff, she added, "Effulgent."

"Dru, what-"

Wiggling her fingers gently around his temples, she said, "Baby fish swim 'round your head like tiny bits of wire, sparking and burning." She placed her palms flat against his temples and looked into his eyes. "But they won't keep my strong, virile boy down. Whatever you do, Spoike, you must remember to keep the sun at your back in the wake of Alisher's folly."

"Alisher's folly, pet?"

Dru nodded. "Before the world is nothing but dust."

She held his gaze steadily for a second, attention focused on him, perhaps waiting for some acknowledgement that he'd grasped the meaning of her words. Then her expression went blank, her pupils shrunk to pinpoints, and before he could even blink, Sane Dru was gone, leaving Crazy Dru in her stead, cryptic prophecies in her wake...and Spike to decipher it all.

Bloody hell.

* * *

_Sunnydale, 2001_

Xander wasn't surprised when his question triggered a nod from both Giles and Anya, nor was he surprised to find their recognition accompanied by looks of sheer confusion from the remainder of the gang.

"Uh, nope, don't know 'em." Buffy shook her head.

Willow and Tara followed suit, their heads rotating in unison from side to side. Dawn just sat there, staring back at him, her face bright, as it almost always was, with curiosity.

Giles cleared his throat. "Alaylashmi—um, _Layla_, as Xander called her—is an extraordinarily powerful _mythological_ princess." He put an emphasis on the word as if comforting a child scared from a ghost story. "One of two princesses, in fact. Twins."

"Ooooh, I like princess stories," said Buffy. "Do the animals sing and dance in this one?"

"Think a little less Disney, a bit more Stanley Kubrick, Buffster," Xander grinned.

Buffy pouted. "Okay, well, you said they were twins. Were they identical or paternal?"

"It's _fruh-_ternal, you moron," Dawn said under her breath.

"Not exactly identical," answered Anya. "More like perfect mirror images of one another. Opposites in every way. Both of were them very, very beautiful."

"Sorta like yin and yang," Xander added, flush with excitement to be counted among those providing answers. "One of them was light, the other was dark." He made two C's with his hands and moved the ends together, forming a circle as he spoke. "And when they worked together, they restored the balance of...I don't know, _something_, and it gave all of their spells this giant turbo boost." He made a quiet _pow_ sound, flaring his hands apart in emphasis.

"Nice," breathed Willow.

Giles eyebrows lifted in surprise, then he nodded at Xander in approval. "An indivisible duality," the older man agreed. "And they came from power, too. Their parents were both impressive sorcerers, though they quite paled in comparison to Layla and Mina."

"Mina, that's the light sister. She was a _total_ Goodie Two Shoes," said Anya with a roll of her eyes. "Prim and proper, kind to everyone. Boringly obedient."

"Layla was, like, _so_ _much cooler_," Xander said in a mock Valley Girl voice, and he smiled when it provoked a laugh from Anya. In a more normal voice, he added, "Seriously, though, she did all the fun stuff…you know, climbing trees, getting dirty, playing little pranks around the village, causing general ruckus. And I guess she was stubborn as hell."

Giles picked up the story from there. "It was her stubbornness that became her ultimate downfall, actually. The twins' father, King…." And then the watcher's voice trailed off, his face scrunched, as he searched his memory for the right name. "Blast, what the hell was it?"

"Believe the bloke's name was _Alisher, _mate."

The answer came from a far corner of the store, and it was followed immediately by the slam of the basement door and the clomp of heavy boots as Spike emerged from the dim shadows, all black leather and platinum waves. He sauntered across the showroom, duster trailing behind him.

The master vampire didn't seem to care that he'd interrupted their meeting, eschewing the research table to settle upon the metal desk shoved behind it. Xander watched as Spike sort of leapt upon the desktop and relaxed against the wall, drawing a knee up and resting his elbow upon it...all in one fluid motion, with the intrinsic grace of a dangerous feline predator channeling its inner Mikhail Baryshnikov.

For the first time in...well, _ever_, Xander actually found himself _admiring _Spike. Understanding his strength and confidence, the hopefulness in his face, his eagerness to be part of the group. And feeling no contempt or bitterness in the process.

_Yikes_.

At the same time, however, Xander noted that Buffy's expression didn't reflect the same complacency. Like the rest of the Scoobies, she'd turned, eyes drawn to the noisy interruption. As soon as she'd noted it was Spike, she'd spun back around, huffing dramatically and rolling her eyes. Xander suspected it was mostly for show.

"What do you want _today_, Spike?" she asked on a big sigh.

"Out runnin' errands, Slayer," he scowled. "Heard you lot talkin' from the tunnels, happened to know the answer to the watcher's question."

"Well, aren't vampires supposed to, you know..._hibernate_ during the day?" she asked.

"'M not a bloody grizzly bear," he grumbled.

"So you were just having yourself a little stroll through the sewers and just happened to be in the neighborhood to eavesdrop?"

"Told you, pet, was runnin' errands. One of 'em was to come make a trade with the demon bird," he defended. "'N anyways, 't's free country, innit?"

"Free and capitalist," Anya agreed. "If you've come with money to spend, Spike, I'd be happy to relieve you of it." She stood and gestured with her hand, inviting the vampire to follow her up to the cash register.

"Ahn," Xander said, interrupting their departure with his own outstretched hand. When Anya paused, Xander flashed her a grateful smile before turning to Spike. "Spike, wait. Don't leave. What were you saying, now?"

A look of surprised confusion filled the vampire's face. Six equally confused Scooby stares accompanied it, reflecting back at Xander from various angles around the table.

Xander was no fool; he knew why. _He_ was the one who normally issued the daily kick-Spike-to-the-curb dismissals. He'd never extended an invitation to join their discussions or expressed appreciation for _any_ contributions Spike could possibly make. And he hadn't issued a formal invitation, but something deep down inside of Xander knew the vampire would be there at some point this morning. Because, well...Spike was _always_ there.

And the thing was, the second Spike had appeared in the Magic Box, Xander realized he'd almost…_missed_ the guy. He'd never acknowledged it before, but in the year or two he'd had to get to know Spike, he'd accepted the vampire as part of their group. Had trusted him enough to fight beside him. Had witnessed his unwavering loyalty to the Scoobies. And okay, the loyalty bit was more for Buffy's and Dawn's especial benefit, but Xander would have to be blind in _both_ eyes to argue that the rest of them hadn't also profited by extension.

How many times had it been _Spike_ swooping in to help save the day? It was _Spike's _idea to form a truce with Buffy in the Angel-and-Acathla business all those years ago. When Anya was attacked by one of D'Hoffryn's henchmen behind the Bronze last year, it was _Spike _who'd been there to defend her. When Glory kidnapped and tortured him for information about the Key, it was _Spike_ who'd kept his lips sealed and Dawn safe. _Spike_ who'd appropriated the RV for their escape from Glory and the Knights of Byzantium. _Spike_ who took care of Dawn all those long, lonely months after Buffy's death. _Spike_ who'd lifted Xander's battered body and helped him out of the wine cellar after Caleb's attack left him down an eye.

_Spike_ who had sacrificed himself in the battle against the First, to defeat the Turok-Han and close the Hellmouth.

So while Xander knew it was, quite literally, out of _this_ Xander's character to invite a demon's participation, he also knew that he needed help from _all _of them. As much as he'd wanted to deny it, D'Hoffryn and the shaman had dropped enough hints. It was clearly inevitable.

But for now, he'd feign ignorance.

"King Alisher?" Xander prompted Spike, ignoring the rest of the confused stares.

"Uh, yeah," the vampire stammered, his eyebrows furrowed. "So, as I was saying, uh, King Alisher's the bloke the watcher's talkin' about."

"You know the story?"

The vampire shrugged. "S'pose I do."

"Well, why don't you stick around and help tell it, then," Xander suggested, watching for Spike's reaction to his next words. "I could really use your help."

Almost in unison, seven audible gasps resounded, as seven individual brains processed the fact that Xander—Mr. I-Hate-Every-Demon-In-Existence—had just willingly requested a favor of William the Bloody.

With a chuckle, Xander thought,_ Yep, that might've done it._

It took a few seconds of silence before anyone spoke. It was Willow who found her voice first.

"Xander?" the redhead intoned, beginning to massage her temples again as she stared up at him. "Honey, are you feelin' okay?"

"I'm just fine, Will," he replied simply, eyes still trained on a somewhat startled Spike.

"You sure?" came Buffy's voice.

"Mmhmm."

"You're not feelin' hot or clammy or dizzy or anything?" added Dawn. "Maybe you should sit down."

Spike smirked. Xander rolled his eyes but dropped into a chair.

"So as Captain Peroxide, there, was saying," he continued, looking back at Spike before sending his gaze around the table, "Big King Alisher's daddy to these two twin girls. They're uber powerful on their own, and, like, ten times more so together. So one day, the dark twin, Layla, tells Daddy she's got a boyfriend, right? And-"

"Was more 'n a bloody _boyfriend_," Spike muttered. When he noticed he'd drawn the entire table's attention, he cleared his throat and continued in a louder voice. "Was more 'n that. Layla 'n Majnun...they grew up together, from the time they were lil' sprogs to bloody teenage hormone bombs. Had all the same firsts. First date, first kiss, first love, first shag. And they caused all the same kinds o' trouble. They were soulmates." Spike paused for dramatic effect, then shrugged. "Just wasn't good enough for dear ol' Da."

"That is _so_ romantic," breathed Dawn.

Buffy rolled her eyes.

"King Alisher _was_ rather overprotective of his daughters," Giles agreed, then he took a sip of tea as the attention turned back to him. "But in this case, he was merely acting as _any_ king would. As any _father_ would, I suspect," he added, with a quick glance at Buffy. "He wanted better for his daughters. Let's not forget that they were of royal lineage. As such, the twins were expected to make strategic alliances, to marry into families that would strengthen the kingdom's influence. I'm afraid Layla's choice..." At Buffy's confused look, he clarified. "She wanted to marry the son of the village healer. And, well, that just didn't make good business sense for the monarchy."

The Slayer's confusion didn't seem to abate, though. "But wait," she said. "I thought you said he was a magi. Isn't that, like, a _good_ thing? Some kind of wise guy or something?"

"Magi?" repeated Giles in confusion. "I never said he was a magi."

"Yeah you did! You said he was called Magi Noon," she clarified.

A giggle erupted from Giles before he could respond, which immediately pissed Buffy off.

"What?" she asked.

"It's _Majnun_, pet. M-A-J-N-U-N," spelled Spike, with a crooked smile that was more friendly than derisive. "'S the bloke's name, not his profession."

Buffy scowled at him, too.

Giles cleared his throat as the rest of the table's inhabitants hid giggles under coughs and bit lips against smiles.

"Yes, well, when Layla threatened to run away with Majnun against her father's wishes," Giles said, "King Alisher banished the boy and his father from the kingdom."

"Which, of course, only made Layla more pissed," interrupted Xander.

Giles cleared his throat and nodded, "Yes, quite right. And in retaliation, Layla enacted a powerful vengeance spell that destroyed their whole dimension."

"And _that's_ not the understatement of the soddin' century," Spike muttered.

"What do you mean?" asked Dawn.

"Think volcanic lava," said Xander. "A great big tidal wave of it, Dawnie, like her anger burnin' up the world and all the little babies and the puppies and the birdies and the-"

"Okay, okay, I get it," Dawn said. "She's a scary biotch."

"Oh, Layla's a tad more 'n scary, Little Bit," chuckled Spike. "The bird's vengeance is _legendary_. Some o' the stuff she did…." The vampire shook his head and whistled, his expression one of equal fear and respect. "If you combined Glorificus and Freddie Kreuger and Adolf bloody Hitler, it'd _still_ be like the soddin' Easter Bunny compared to Layla."

"And can I just say thank you very much for _that_ image, Mr. Vampy Pants," complained Anya.

"Yes, well, suffice it to say her vengeance was mighty. As the story goes, she covered the kingdom in lava, and as the last of it swallowed King Alisher," Giles continued, "her father enacted an unbreakable curse upon Layla, banishing her to another plane of existence where she's always just a hair's breadth away from the living world. Sentenced to an eternity alone, wallowing forever in her own vengeful anguish. Put there by her own father."

After a moment of silence, Xander lamented, "Talk about daddy issues."

"For real," agreed Buffy.

"Oh, it's textbook vengeance, just set to expert level," Anya corrected. By the gleam in her eye, she was clearly swept up in the drama of the story. "Layla's basically cursed to an eternity as a cosmic vacuum cleaner. Going around to every war and natural disaster in just about every dimension, sucking out all the leftover pain and anguish." The ex-demon lightly hugged herself around the middle, her face suddenly wistful. "Why, the legend of Layla is one of the most important chapters in the Vengeance Handbook."

"And here I complained about _my_ summer reading," Dawn smirked. Tara smiled at her.

"Oh, it's a gripping story!" Anya assured her. "Sort of like...Romeo and Juliet meets the Fall of Pompeii." Then she added, "And the Bubonic Plague."

"Gripping," Buffy intoned.

"There's even a nursery rhyme about her," Anya continued. "Most demon children learn it while they're still in the cradle. Lemme think for a second, I might be able to remember a little bit of it. It went something like-"

"But I don't get it," interrupted Dawn. She turned to Xander. "What does this have to do with us?"

"A fine question," announced Giles. "Allow me to add to it. Why are we sitting around telling stories when our time would be better spent figuring out how to defeat Glory?"

"Well, see, that's the thing," said Xander. "If we're not careful, this battle with Glory could trigger a domino effect...one that ends with Layla and Majnun making a return visit. As in _together_. And in _this_ dimension."

"But that would-" Giles started, staring at Xander in confusion. "Xander, that's preposterous. The stories of Layla and Majnun are just _that…._mere stories at best."

"_Stories_?" Anya scoffed. "I don't suppose you'd say that to the face of the dozens of vengeance demons who've actually come in contact with Layla, right?" She shook her head with wide eyes. "She's no party, I tell ya, no party _at_ _all_. No siree."

"Anya, you've seen her?" asked Giles. "You're telling me you've actually _met_ this Layla of legend?"

"Oh, no, I've never actually _met_ her," admitted the ex-demon.

"Well, I should hope not," replied Giles in relief. "If you really _had_ come across Alaylashmi...if these stories really _are _true? I rather doubt you'd have lived to tell the tale."

"That bad, huh?" Willow asked.

"Quite so," confirmed the watcher with a nod.

"Well, of course I've never actually _met_ her," Anya clarified, rolling her eyes. "One doesn't exactly _meet_ Layla, Giles, considering the fact that she's on a _different plane of existence_. But I've definitely gotten close enough to _feel_ her."

This time, it wasn't only Giles who reacted. Xander gasped, his attention locked on Anya. From across the table, an echoing clang resounded as Spike's Doc Martens made contact with the side of the metal desk.

"You've-you've been near enough t' _feel_ her, pet?" the vampire asked incredulously, pushing himself off the desktop and onto the floor. "_The_ Layla?"

"Well, sure. Lots of times. Why do you think she's part of the Handbook?" Anya waited a beat, received nothing but stares back. "Okay, look, when I was a vengeance demon, the really big, gruesome death scenes...they were kinda my _thing_."

Xander shuddered, remembering firsthand just _how_ big and gruesome her "thing" actually was.

"It was my _job_," Anya defended when she saw her boyfriend's reaction. "And I was good at it."

"Actually, I know," Xander replied sincerely. When she seemed surprised at his support, he added, "Ahn, you're good at just about everything you do."

After a moment, she shrugged. "I am, aren't I?" she said with a contented smile. Flattery always worked. "Anyways, it's my motto that if you're gonna do something, you might as well do it _right_. So I always stuck around after every vengeance job was done. You know, made sure all the pieces fell where they should've. That often meant I was leaving right as Layla was showing up."

"Hit 'er on the shift change, eh, pet?" Spike asked.

Anya nodded.

"I can't even _tell_ you how many times I teleported over her plane. _Dozens, _at least. I'd think it probably happens to _all_ vengeance demons, at one time or another" she added. "I mean, think about it. The whole vengeful death and destruction thing...causing anguish...living off anguish..."

Anya extended her hands as if demonstrating a balance between the options in her palms.

"Makes sense," shrugged Tara, and the rest of the group nodded in agreement.

"And it never affected you?" Giles asked.

A violent shiver shook her body, "She's the only inhabitant of a soul-sucking black abyss of despair. What do you think?"

"Okay, so then, let's assume the stories about Layla are real," said Giles.

"Which they are," Anya reaffirmed.

Giles gave her a wary sideways glance.

"Real enough," Xander agreed, "that there's a prophecy about their return, Giles."

"Come again?" Giles asked. "A prophecy?"

"Ya-huh," Xander nodded. "It's kind of what ties this whole story back to us. A prophecy was found about a hundred years ago that said Layla'd return sometime after the Hellmouth falls in the land of the wasted sun."

"A rather interesting choice of words," Giles remarked, staring at Xander thoughtfully for a moment. "You said a_ return after the fall of the Hellmouth in the land of the wasted sun_?"

Xander nodded.

The watcher turned on his heel and strode over to a teetering bookstack, and after a quick study of the spines, extracted a small leather-bound tome from the pile. He fanned the pages under this thumb, searching a few lines until he found the passage he was looking for, then read silently for a few moments with his finger trailing the sentences.

"Yes, here it is," he finally said.

The watcher took a breath and started reading aloud, slowly translating the words as he went:

"And in the End Years there will be a colossal battle. One like none the world has ever known before, commencing between the ultimate good and the original evil. And at its end, the collapse of the gates to hell and the return of love over tragedy in the wasted land of the sun."

"That'd be the one," confirmed Xander.

"Well, Xander, that prophecy is not about Layla," assured Giles. "It's, well..."

The Englishman shut the book's cover, his finger acting as a bookmark as he held it up, pointing to the oddly shaped symbols gracing the cover. He translated the title for the group. "_Pergámou Koqydikós_. The Pergamum Codex."

"Oh, not _that_ thing again," whined Buffy.

"What?" Dawn asked.

"The Pergamum Codex," Giles repeated. "An ancient text containing the most complete prophecies about the Slayer's role in the End Times."

"That's the book that told Giles I'd go up against the Master," Buffy explained. With a smirk, she added "Said I'd die doin' it, too."

"Hey, any juicy tidbits 'bout me in there, Rupes?" Spike asked hopefully.

Scowling at the vampire, but otherwise ignoring his inquiry, Giles turned back to Xander and said, "The point is that the prophecy you speak of is infamous among the Watcher's Council. Not because it's about Layla, but because it's in reference to the Slayer's part in the final battle of the world and good's ultimate triumph over evil. So while an important prediction for certain, it's by no means about the return of some legendary magical princess. And furthermore, whether or not we agree that she's fictitious, I believe it's pretty safe to say that Layla's never been referred to as the 'original evil.'"

"Mmhmm," agreed Xander. "So what if the Codex translation's just a little bit off?" Xander waited a beat before adding, "And what if we're not actually talking about the _original evil_ part?"

"Explain," directed Giles.

"Well, see, that's a kind of long story," replied Xander. When Giles went to rebut, Xander raised a hand to shush him. "I'm gonna tell it. I _need_ to tell it. But first, I need you guys to promise you'll keep an open mind and will hear me out before you start shoutin' that I'm crazy. 'Cause it's gonna sound an awful lot like I am."

"Sure, Xan, we promise," said Willow, and Tara nodded over the redhead's shoulder.

"Alright," agreed Giles.

Buffy, Dawn, and Anya all intoned similar affirmations.

When the dim corner behind the research table remained silent, Xander turned to address the vampire sitting there. "That goes for you, too, Spike."

"What the bleedin' hell did _I_ do?" Spike sneered. "You people are _always_ blaming me for _everything_." When Xander refused to withdraw his gaze, the vampire sighed dramatically, rolled his eyes and acquiesced, raising three pale fingers in an undead boy scout salute and saying, "Fine, I hereby solemnly swear I won't call you bat-shaggin' bonkers before you've finished your lil' fairy tale. Satisfied?"

Xander nodded once in acknowledgement, then glanced quickly at Anya and smiled. It was now or never.

"Guys," he began, "I'm from the future."


	14. Things That Do Sound So Fair

**Chapter Thirteen: Things That Do Sound So Fair**

An awkward silence hung for several long seconds.

Then, all at once, the research table erupted into a mind-numbing explosion of chaos as seven excited voices fought for top billing. On pure reflex, Xander flinched, and as his body braced itself defensively, he felt—he somehow knew what was happening, too—the _essence_ deep within him called up.

Time slowed.

Well, it didn't really _slow_, per se. His perception just sort of...sharpened, separating the activity around him into easier-to-manage chunks of information. Like a giant Xander-shaped transistor radio, able to tune itself between the different sounds and smells and movements.

Dawn's voice registered first. "Why can't you _ever_ be serious, you _goober_?" she screamed, punctuating it with a notepad chucked at Xander's head.

A small shift to the left of _that_ was the deafening clang of Spike's palm on the metal desktop. "Ha! He's off 'is bloody rocker!" the vampire howled. "I knew it! I knew it!"

A trifle in _this_ direction came Giles' polished, "Good lord." He glared at the animated Spike, yanked the glasses from his nose, then repeated the imprecation a second time. "Good lord!"

A tilt away from _that _was a nails-on-chalkboard screech of Buffy shoving her chair back. She reached toward Xander's forehead, but before she made contact, Dawn's notepad came spiraling out of nowhere, rebounding off the Slayer's fingertips. She spun angrily. "Goddammit, Dawn!"

"Oh, c'mon, Xan," Willow's tired voice lamented, just a small shift over in _this _direction. Then the notepad ricocheted off Buffy's fingers, smacking the redhead square on the cheek, and her somewhat moanier "Ow!" joined the Slayer's irritated expletive.

An itty bitty shift behind _that_ was Tara's gentle voice. "Xander, what are—oh, goddess! Willow!" And as she reached for her girlfriend, her hand met the mug in front of her, upending it with a _tink_. A fragrant river of amber liquid spilled over the rim and onto the table.

Anya's shrill voice was only a bit to the left of _that_, and from the seat nearest the cash register, she wailed, "_Alexander Harris_, what did you do _this time_?"

It all happened at once, in a roaring barrage—the jibes, the exasperation, the concern, the questions, the fucking _flying object—_seven different reactions on seven different layers. And he could fan them out and study them like seven different playing cards.

Well, _that's_ kinda cool.

He abandoned this particular dealt hand, though, the moment Buffy returned to his side—done knocking Dawn upside the head, no doubt. She reached out to test his temperature, touching a soft palm to Xander's forehead, and he vaguely heard her mumble, "Well, you don't feel warm," before a stream of consciousness blinked to life behind his eyelids.

It was just a brief snippet at the forefront of her mind—the memory of a sterile hospital room, Willow clapping Glory away, and _his_ scruffy ass appearing. One part of his brain acknowledged the weirdness of viewing it from this different angle. Another part struggled to justify _this_ version with its not-quite-identical predecessor, three years before it in Xander's memory. But the biggest part of him concentrated solely on the anomaly of the world inside the Slayer's mind.

There was a pervading feeling of _one-_ness to Buffy, covering him with emotions he hadn't experienced inside Giles or Anya. He felt lonely and forsaken, loved and cherished, weak and helpless, powerful and chosen, and he felt all of the emotions all at the very same time.

Damn, she was _strong_. A warrior through and through, aware of _everything_...from Dawn's steady breathing behind her, to the twitch in Glory's nose when the glittery potion hit her face, to the increase in the room's magical energy preceding Xander's reappearance.

And her slayer sense was positively abuzz, a low and incessant vibration with Spike so near. His presence..._comforted_ her with its strength and its familiarity. It would be years still before she'd admit that. Xander had no idea it had started this early.

The sheer magnitude of _Buffy_ very nearly overwhelmed him. He was really gonna have to learn how to control this shit, and fast, because these emotional head-on collisions—one right after another—were _exhausting_.

"Wow," he repeated his inner monologue, breathing out the word on a long sigh once she'd pulled her hand away. "_That_ was a little intense."

He looked up into emerald eyes that were studying him dubiously under deeply furrowed Buffy brows. He'd have only seconds before she started in on the questions, he just knew it.

"Yes, well," Giles muttered, drawing Buffy's attention away. "If by _a little intense_," the older man continued, "you mean that your skull is still reverberating..." His voice trailed off, and he rubbed his temple, shooting the vampire a glare that was rewarded with a two finger salute. The watcher sighed. "As for its _cause_, Xander. Surely you don't think you can make some monumental statement and simply be taken at your word?"

"I _told_ you it was a long story," Xander said, then he flipped his thumb at the table. "If you could just get _these_ yahoos to shut up, I'll tell it." As an afterthought, he smiled and added, "And don't call me Shirley."

Spike snickered.

"Oh, for crying out loud," Giles groaned.

"Look," Xander announced with a grin. "It's just like I said. I'm from the future. Up until last night, I wasn't in Sunnydale. Most of us weren't, actually. And it wasn't 2001."

Silence.

Xander scanned the faces that surrounded him. "Okay. Like..._you_," he finally said, gesturing to Buffy. "You've spent the last couple months kicking demon ass at the Cleveland Hellmouth."

"Cleveland? Wait, there's another hellmouth?" Buffy asked, doubt on her face as she looked to Giles for confirmation.

"Several, actually," her watcher nodded. "Cleveland and Chile for sure. Possibly Romania."

"Romania's a bust," Xander said, shaking his head. "But there _is_ one in France. City's called Loo-dan or Loo-dawn or...something."

"La bouche de l'enfer de Loudun," Spike recited in an oddly refined, definitely perfect French accent. When Buffy lifted her eyebrows in question, he added, "The Hellmouth of Loudun, pet."

Xander giggled childishly and repeated, "La boosh de lawn-fair. That always sounds so _dirty_."

"Damn right it's dirty," Spike replied. "It's French for a demon's wet dream. As for the Loudun Hellmouth, though...I'm pretty sure that one's been inactive for a while now."

"A few centuries," Giles agreed.

"At least for now," added Xander. The Loudun Hellmouth had gone — _would go?_ — active a few days after Sunnydale fell — _will fall?_ Whatever. Anyways, once Giles had taken over the Council, he'd sent a trove of slayers to stand guard over it. He'd considered making his way there eventually, after Africa and...well, whatever happened there. Anya had always told him France was beautiful. He wondered if it lived up to the hype. "There's this, uh, crazy movie that's set there. Y'know, in Loudun."

"_The Devils_," said Giles and Spike in unison.

"Uh, that was a little weird," said Dawn.

"That movie was cuh-razy," said Xander. "I never looked at a nun the same again."

"Heard tell it was even crazier in person," replied Spike.

"Oh, it definitely was," agreed Anya.

"Wait," Giles was taken aback. "The Loudun possessions were real?"

"Oui, oui," said the vampire. "Geez, Watcher, when're you gonna get it through your thick skull that the Council's not the end-all be-all? Ever read Aldous Huxley?"

"I certainly have," Giles replied haughtily. "And the possessions he wrote about were debunked. In reality, they were the result of political corruption. Sexual repression. A...an attempt to convert a mostly Protestant population to Catholicism."

"Oh, the possessions were just as real as the corruption and the repression were," Anya confirmed. With a wave of her hand, she added, "And there was always _someone _those pesky Catholics were trying to manipulate." Mocking secrecy behind her hand, she said, "And anyways, back in those days, almost _all_ the priests were sorcerers. That one was just dumb enough to get caught."

"See?" asked the vampire, smiling smugly as Giles glanced between him and Anya with his mouth open.

"Um, okay," Willow interjected slowly. "So, uh, lots of Hellmouths. Check. And you say it's not 2001 where you come from?"

"2003," Xander replied. "And it's, uh..." He hadn't so much as glanced at a calendar since he'd left Sunnydale. "September? Maybe October? I don't know, been a while since I looked...or cared."

His best friend's dubious glance was far more telling than any verbal response would've been, and a quick scan around the table told him the sentiment was shared. They all pretty much thought he was certifiable.

"Okay, look. I'm not crazy," he reassured them, palms up in pseudo surrender as he looked from one face to the next. "And yeah, I know that's the first thing a crazy person would say, but I'm really not. It's just—okay, it was a bad way to start the story. I just—"

His eyes landed back on Dawn and his train of thought suddenly stopped short.

The youngest Summers was sprawled on a wooden chair, all gawky legs and long arms, and she was staring back at him with eager doe eyes, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. This was the Dawnie at the tail end of her Xander crush, before the abandonment issues, the shoplifting, the lying, the self-harm. Back when her fear of Glory was still somewhat tempered by the security of mom, a big sis, a bevy of older friends.

_This _Dawnie had yet to be accepted into the inner circle. Over the next couple of years, she'd become a treasured and respected confidante...with plenty of secrets he wouldn't have otherwise known _now_.

The gears started turning in his head.

Ooooh, she was gonna be _pissed_.

"You know," he said, drawing the words out slowly as his gaze lingered over the girl. He fought the sinister urge to rub his hands together. "I'm pretty sure I know how t' prove it to you guys."

Under his extended attention, Dawn's blush deepened further and her blue eyes flickered nervously around the table.

"I'm sorry in advance," Xander started.

"Sorry?" she asked.

"It's kinda weird to see you so _young_," he told her instead. "The Dawnie _I_ know is a senior in high school. She has a ton of friends, a part time job…." He winked. "A new car."

That last bit piqued her interest, as he knew it would, and she raised her eyebrows and sat up straighter.

"Last time we talked," he went on with a smile, "you said you liked all your classes. Especially Latin. Although you said they should be paying _you_ to teach it 'cause the real teacher's a nimrod." He chuckled. "Hardly any wonder, though, since you've been teaching yourself all those ancient languages for, like, _ever_. Right?"

He paused, watching her head avert as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. _One more Dawn bomb to drop_, he thought, _and that should just about do it._

"I mean," he continued smoothly, "you've already started collecting all those books under your bed, haven't you?" Her head suddenly popped up, and he saw the anxiety in Dawn's pupils as he went in for the kill. "You know, the ones you sneak from Giles' bookshelves?"

Dawn's sudden gasp—_Yep, that did it_, he thought_—_sounded like it probably hurt, and her eyes gaped out of their sockets as she swiveled her head frantically between him and the elder Brit.

"Wha-? How-? I don't-! I-! " Dawn stuttered.

Xander laughed, instantly taking pity on the girl. "We had to replace the wall between your bedrooms after Spike pulled Andr-" He caught himself, though not in enough time to prevent the confusion on Spike's face. Xander chose to ignore it. "We had to move your bed to fix the wall, and you must've had, like, twenty books hidden under there. Giles nearly killed you."

"As I might still," warned the watcher, glaring at the girl. His voice was stern when he asked, "Which books, Dawn?"

"Uh-" she stammered.

"Well done, Lil' Bit," cheered Spike.

"Oh, you _would_ encourage her," muttered Giles. Then to Dawn again, this time more sternly, he said, "_Which books_, Dawn?"

"Oh, lighten up, Giles. Don't listen to him, Dawnie," Xander chuckled. "He's all bark. The Giles _I_ know brags about you all the time." He snuck a peek at the grumpy ex-librarian, taking aim for his next direct hit. "He always says you remind him of his Grandma Edna."

The look of shock on the watcher's face was _more _than worth the trouble. _Nailed part two as well._

"Who's Grandma Edna?" Tara asked from across the table.

"Hmmm? Oh, uh, my father's mother," Giles answered, shocked eyes still fastened on Xander. Softer, he mused, "I don't believe I've ever told you about her."

"Probably another stuffy watcher type," Buffy guessed in a stage whisper. "Giles hails from a long line of tweed."

"She was a watcher, yes," Giles affirmed, breaking his gaze at Xander to look at his slayer with a smile. "With a rather prominent Council role, in fact." And with a flick of his head, he added, "But _stuffy_ may be a bit imprecise. Grandmother was remarkably clever and quick-witted, as any good watcher should be, but she loved nothing better than a good challenge to the Council's status quo."

"An anti-Council watcher, huh?" asked Willow appreciatively.

Happy to have the focus off her, Dawn poked her sister in the back and added, "Sounds right up _your _alley."

Giles removed his glasses and wiped them again, nodding with a smile. "She definitely kept the Council on their toes...the rest of us as well," he added, placing his spectacles back on his nose. "She was always going out of her way to make a statement. At the Farewell Tour in '68, she flashed Eric Clapton for backstage tickets." He grinned at the memory. "What a bloody amazing night."

"Royal Albert Hall?" Spike asked.

"None other."

"Not a bad show."

"Not their best either, but no...not bad at all," Giles agreed, his expression a million miles away for a few seconds. Then he shook his head and refocused on his slayer. "And Dawn's right, Buffy. You'd have loved her."

"When Edna was a student at the Watcher's Academy," Xander broke in, "there was this really old and powerful vampire they kept chained in the school's dungeons."

"They kept a vampire chained in the _dungeons_?" Buffy asked, a wry glance at Giles. "Initiative much?"

"But why?" Tara added.

"The older the vampire, pet," Spike said, "the richer the information. Just _think_ what a valuable commodity that'd be for the ol' Council of Wankers, eh?"

"And the guy's name was Roche, right?" Xander asked Giles for confirmation. "The vampire?"

The watcher seemed frozen on the spot, his mouth hanging open as he stared at Xander.

"Yeah, 't's Roche." Spike volunteered information for Giles for the second time that day. "Ugly n' wrinkly as ol' Bat Face, got himself nabbed in the 20's." A bit louder than under his breath, he added, "Ponce owes me fifty quid."

Buffy sighed and rolled her eyes, "Do you name drop just to sound _cool_?"

Her question earned a smirk from Spike and a giggle from both Tara and Dawn.

"Spike's right," Giles murmured distractedly, still studying Xander. He shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs. "Uh...about Roche. Not the fifty quid."

"Right. So this one day," Xander continued, "a few teachers took Edna and some of the other students down into the dungeons...to, uh, _listen to Roche"—_Xander made air quotes for emphasis—_"_tell stories about other famous vampires. You know, a little afternoon story sesh with the big scary master vamp."

"Geez louise," said Dawn.

"What none of them realized, though," Xander continued, "was that Roche's _sire_ was there to bust him out, and that she'd placed all these teachers under her thrall so they'd deliver Roche a nice, big buffet dinner. Build up his strength before he strolled out the front door."

"Like lambs to the slaughter, I'd wager," Spike guessed, and when Xander nodded, he responded in kind. "'T's a classic trick. One Dru was rather fond of, come t' think of it."

"And Edna totally figured it out," Xander said. "She trashes their plan, goes after the sire, tears into her teachers for bein' idiots...and then leaves 'em all down there in the dungeons to go flirt with Grandpa Giles."

Appreciative laughter surfaced from everyone but Grandma Edna's namesake. Giles simply remained motionless, staring back at Xander with that same look of studious surprise on his face. Very slowly, he drew his glasses from the bridge of his nose down into his lap, repolished them absentmindedly with the corner of his shirt.

"Well, how come you've never told us about her before, Giles?" asked Dawn.

"I...I…uh..." the watcher stammered. After a moment to collect his thoughts, he added, "Well, I suppose it's never come up."

Xander smirked.

"Oh, it will, Dawnie," he promised her, rolling his eyes. "_Everything_ you do reminds him of her. He says so all the time. She was mondo badass. And you may think you're only the sister of the Slayer, but you'll find out that you're pretty badass, too."

* * *

Something was up with Xander.

And not just with the time travel-y stuff.

Buffy hadn't noticed anything weird last night or this morning, when he'd first said hello. And outside of the whole _knowing everything_ sitch, he'd sounded pretty normal when he helped tell the princess story.

But when he'd announced he was a time traveler, Buffy had reached out to touch him, and the instant her skin touched his, it was _there_. A tiny spark. A little flare of sixth slayer sense, tickling the back of her neck to alert her that something demonic was close. And when she'd peered into his eyes, he'd looked at her with this weird sort of..._reverence_. As if he'd known what she'd been thinking.

Which was most definitely of the wig-some.

She had little time to consider it further, as the _ding_ of the shop's front bell heralded the arrival of their pizzas. Buffy watched as Xander walked across the showroom to greet the delivery boy. Her friend didn't really _look_ any different. Well, okay, maybe he held his head up a little higher...and his gait was a little more confident...but then again, she could've just been looking for connections where there really weren't any.

He returned to the table with four fragrant pies, a small paper bag topped the stack of pizza boxes. Xander grabbed it and tossed it to Spike.

"Whassis?" the bleached vampire asked, reaching out to grab the parcel in midair. With a quick tear of the paper, he upended the contents over an empty corner of the desk. Several see-through packets of crushed red pepper flakes tumbled out, along with a small plastic container of hot peppers and a sealed tub of something liquid and red. Hot sauce, she guessed, since she doubted the local pizzeria listed blood on the menu.

Spike studied the spicy condiments, confusion twisting his face, and as she watched him, Buffy knew he was just as puzzled about the contents as he was about the invitation it implied. She was, too.

When he spoke again, his voice was soft, uncertain, and—after that out-of-the-blue French recitation, dare she think it again?—almost _refined_. "Uh, thank you, Xander."

Buffy gasped, nearly choking on her own saliva, and when Dawn turned to pat her on the back, she noted the surprise in her sister's eyes as well. A quick survey of her friends and Giles told her the sentiment was shared.

"Oh, no problem," Xander said offhandedly as he went about opening pizza boxes with no regard—at least as far as Buffy could tell—for the enormity of what had just occurred. He'd either failed to notice or he was deliberately feigning disinterest. She wondered which it was.

"Pineapple for the super witches," Xander announced, holding out the first pizza box to Willow without looking up from the second. "Pepperoni for me and Giles." He opened the third. "Extra veggie, Ahn and Buffy." Xander handed the pizza to a stupefied Anya, then opened the last box, winced, and shut the lid with a cardboard bang. "Anchovies for Dawnie and Spike. And might I add, that is _rank_." He curled his lip in disgust as he shoved the final pizza across the table.

Wait a minute. Did he just—?

Xander was on his third mouthful of greasy, meat-and-cheesy goodness before he looked up and noticed that he was the only one eating. And then, knowing they were all just standing there staring back at him, he merely finished chewing _that_ bite and took another, his face sort of relaxing around the bulge in his cheek.

What was _up_ with him?

"Yeah….so, uh," Buffy began, "while I love a good pizza pigout just as much as the next guy...is anyone else feeling like….well, I mean..." At a loss for words, she gestured with both hands extended, one pointing at Xander, the other at Spike.

A wave of affirmation—Spike's voice more obstreperous than the rest—swelled and ebbed across the table.

"So, uh...Xander?" Buffy prompted.

"Yeah, Harris, what the bloody hell _is_ this?" added Spike. When Buffy looked back at him, the vampire was holding up a handful of plastic packaging. "Innit usually _you_ at the helm o' the _SS We Hate Spike_?"

"Oh, c'mon, guys," Xander grumbled. "I'm not _always_ like that."

Spike's snort of derision got lost in a flood of the same.

"Okay, fine," Xander said. "Then how 'bout we just say that _that_ ship has sunk, and I've had to circle back around for something with a few more bells and whistles. People change. It's 'bout time I did, too, don't you think?"

While they were openly wary, the gang seemed to settle at that, and Buffy reached for a slice of veggie as the rest of her friends began serving themselves. The store was quiet for a minute or two as they ate.

"Look," Xander continued after a few mouthfuls, "yesterday, I was literally out in the middle of nowhere, and we were on the verge of some pretty nasty, definitely final, end-of-the-world shit." Gesturing in a forward motion with his hand, he added, "I'm talking, racing towards hell at the speed of light in a pink, polka-dotted handbasket shit." Xander pointed the pizza-less hand inward toward his chest. "I'm afraid that _this_, my fine friends, was the only way to stop it."

Utter silence reigned, and for several long seconds no one even chewed.

Then Spike groaned and rolled his eyes. "Bloody hell, the world is doomed," the vampire lamented.

"You took the words right out of my mouth," added Giles.

* * *

It wasn't the first time Spike had ever heard someone say they'd traveled through time. He'd come across a number of demons who'd said they could—for all he knew, some may've been able to do it—and a few lunatic humans who'd been minimally convincing. When your unlife spans an eternity, you can pretty much bet the bank you're gonna see and hear some craziness. He'd gotten pretty good at deciphering between the barm and the bona fide. The Whelp, it appeared, was telling the truth.

From a purely physiological standpoint, Spike hadn't sensed any of the bodily changes that typically accompany a lie. Harris' blood pressure and pulse stayed pretty normal. There'd been no variation in his breathing. Instead of the slightly sour odor that indicated deceit and anxiety, the scent emanating from the boy's pores was its normal combination of artery-clogging junk food and lily-white guilelessness. That wasn't how Spike knew, though.

It was that deep-down feeling he'd gotten the _instant _he'd overheard the Scoobies' conversation, long before Xander had even uttered the words "I'm from the future." It was that soddin' king's name, and it had brought it all rushing back, compelling him up from the cellar and out onto the magic shop floor. Eighty bloody years since that night in Rome, and Spike could suddenly recall every second of it in the finest of detail, as if it was only _yesterday_.

It wasn't as if he'd forgotten. Not _that_ night nor the year of nights he'd spent afterwards, poring through endless dusty reference books in search of a cipher to decode Dru's prattle. Somewhere along the way, he'd boxed it all up and put it on a shelf in the back corner of his mind. Moved on to the next tasty morsel, searched the world for the next bout of fangs and fisticuffs.

But now it was back, front and center, thanks to Harris. Memories of Dru and Alisher's folly and the destiny he was tied to. Reminding Spike just how much he hated playing pawn to the bloody Fates. _He_ was the master of his own domain, and he answered to _no one_, most especially not some soddin' source of meddlin' mystical energy that was free to weave and clip the threads of his destiny into some massive White Hat tapestry.

Those sorts of ideals were much more befitting of the poncey William, whose comfort came in the form of an ever powerful Victorian God, creator of all things, able to affect as well as shoulder the fate of the world. Bugger _that_. And now, the fact that Spike's big, bloody destiny arrived out of nowhere, on the backside of the soddin' Whelp, in all his time travelin', wanna-be, sidekick glory? Well, didn't _that_ just leave a taste in his mouth that was worse than a rancid, three-day-old blood clot.

"So let's say we _do _believe you."

Buffy's voice halted Spike's inner turmoil, and he gazed in her direction. She was chewing the inside of her lip, and he found himself _aching _to have a taste of his own. _Quit staring, you prat._

"Does that, like, make you some kind of Xander McFly?" she asked, her green eyes wide and adorable. "Do you, like, have a fading photo in your back pocket? Maybe there's some unsuspecting couple you've been sent back to throw together?"

"Uh, well..." Xander stammered, his eyes glancing at Spike, then to Buffy, then to Spike, then back to Buffy again.

Giles wiped his mouth on a paper napkin, cleared his throat as he reached for his tea, and said, "And, uh, you say you were in Africa?"

It came out sounding more statement than question, but Xander nodded.

"What the hell were you doing _there_?" Spike asked, considering the perpetual sunshine and dusty sand, and thinking, _Been there, done that, don't need the t-shirt._

The boy just shrugged. "Went to see a man about a girl."

It was the way Harris said it, and the way he studied Spike as if he was waiting for a reaction. It sent a chilling feeling of _déjà vu _down the back of his undead neck. Mingled with the _knowing_ feeling deep down in his belly—though he had no idea what it was that he _knew_—Spike was rendered speechless.

"You, uh...you went to see a man?" prompted Giles, glancing uncertainly from Spike to Xander.

Harris nodded and chuckled. "Spent a few months traveling down the eastern coast of Africa," he said, ripping his crust into pieces and stuffing a chunk in his mouth. "Ended up in the Kalahari Desert, in a shaman's hut out in the middle of BFE." He swallowed, took another bite, and then tipped his chin at the watcher. "On the advice of a friend of yours, actually."

Giles' head tilted in curiosity. "Oh?"

"Yeah, Patrick something or other," Xander replied. "Ex-watcher and British like you, but the kind of British that's heavy on the _blimey_'s and much less tweedy-sounding. Think he lives somewhere near Zimbabwe. At least that's where I was when you told me to call him."

The watcher's mouth dropped open as if to comment, then he snapped it shut. He opened it again, poised to speak. Closed it once more.

"Uh, Xander," Buffy remarked as her watcher floundered like a guppy. "I think you broke Giles."

"Havin' a Boo Radley moment, are we?" asked Spike with a smirk.

"A rather spectacular one, actually," Giles acknowledged. "Xander, I haven't spoken to Patrick Strum in more than a decade. Are you quite sure?"

Xander only nodded, shrugged, and stuffed another piece of crust into his mouth.

Giles looked around uneasily as the thought settled. "And this shaman...was it he who sent you back?"

"Um, well," Xander considered, then shrugged again. "Guess so, in a roundabout way."

"Harris?" Spike asked. "This shaman bloke...he didn't happen to offer you a bit o' Kool-Aid, did he? Give you a choice between a red n' a blue pill?"

The boy rolled his eyes, but then froze, tiny movements in his eyebrows indicating he was actually pondering Spike's question. "Actually, I guess I _was _kinda given a choice," he finally admitted. "A little less suicidal Morpheus, though, and more...I don't know...pre-boss power-up?"

"How much of a pre-boss power-up are we talkin' here?" Spike asked. "End-of-the-_board_ boss or end-of-the-_game_ boss?"

"Oh, I'd say this one was definitely end-of-the-game," the Whelp answered.

""I don't get it. What's the difference?" asked the Slayer, eyebrows askew with confusion.

"With the bosses at the end of a world or at the end of a level," interjected Tara, "you hit 'em a couple of times and they die. They're easy to beat...and you don't really need a whole lot of power to do it."

Willow glanced up at her girlfriend in surprise.

"What? I used to play Mario with my cousins." Tara smiled before continuing. "It takes a _whole_ lot more hits to kill the big boss and beat the game, though, so you usually need a little boost at the end—you know, extra life, firepower, a mushroom, whatever. That way, you can finish the job without dying."

Buffy considered. "Okay, that makes sense. So your time jump...that was the power up?"

"No, not exactly," Xander said. "I actually got juiced a little before that. The jump was sort of a way to warp back to the beginning." Looking pleased with the analogy he'd chosen for his explanation, he added, "And I didn't have to give up the points or the experience we won beating all the bosses in between."

"All the bo— Wait. Hang on there, horsey," said the Slayer. She closed her eyes, raised her hand in a halting gesture. "You say you were in 2003, right?"

Spike watched Xander wait for Buffy to open her eyes before he nodded.

"And you jumped back after beating boss-_ES_?" She placed extra emphasis on the syllable pluralizing the word. "As in, more than one big bad, right?"

The boy nodded again.

"How many, Xander?"

"Oh, I don't know, five or six, give or take the handful of little guys thrown in between," he answered.

"Okay. And...we beat Glory?" Buffy's question ended on an upswing, laced with hopefulness.

"Yeah, we did," Xander affirmed. "And yeah, that means I know what she wants, and how it's all gonna go down. I also know a few things Glory's trying to keep secret that would poke some pretty big holes in her defense. The kinda stuff we didn't know about last time until it was almost too late."

That one surprised Spike, and he glanced at the Slayer. The expression on her face told him the thought of an easier Glory defeat was starting to eat away at her doubt in Harris' story. He'd known she'd come around eventually, and he didn't blame her initial hesitation. After all, he knew the Whelp was soundin' and actin' like a rat arsed lunatic.

But the more he thought about it….

Eight decades ago, a lucid Dru had warned him to be wary of Alisher's folly. Eighty years later, the Whelp suddenly promoted himself from carpenter to time traveler, spouting stories about Alisher's daughter making some big bad return.

The two were connected somehow, and it was enough to convince him that Harris was telling the truth about the rest.

To be sure, though, he asked, "And you're sayin' this somehow ties in with the Layla bird, eh?"

Xander nodded slowly, considering his words. "We made some...mistakes that we can't make again. Ones that started a chain of events that just kept getting worse and worse." He looked down at his lap. "I'm pretty sure it's the whole reason I was sent back to _this_ point in time. _This_ is where the change has to be made. I think if we can take what the shaman told me, and use it to tweak what I remember from beating Glory, we can probably avoid knocking over that first domino. 'Cause the one at the end of the line is the one that opens the door for Layla."

"Aw, look," said Spike, his voice all mock doting father. "Our wittle baby's all growed up and concerned about savin' the world. In't he cute?"

"Shut up, Spike," came Buffy's and Xander's voices in near-perfect unison.

Giles cleared his throat and pointed at the notepad in front of Dawn, nodding his thanks when the youngest in the group slid it across the table in his direction.

"Then I guess we had better get started," the watcher said. He drew a pen out of his breast pocket and put it to the paper. "Xander, what exactly _do_ you remember about defeating Glory?"


	15. Why Do You Start and Seem to Fear?

**Chapter Fourteen: Why Do You Start and Seem to Fear?**

The air inside the Bronze smelled of liquor and sweat, sawdust and paint fumes. Its pre-Olaf goth-industrial visage had gotten a serious facelift—more modern, more high techy—and the band was really kicking tonight. The _Grand Re-Opening_ party had the place teeming with bodies. Buffy looked around, telling to herself it really was too bad she wasn't in the mood to enjoy it.

A morning filled with wig-some Xander revelations, followed by an afternoon of heavy research had her head spinning like the inside of a washing machine. She didn't want to dance, she certainly wasn't interested in drowning her anxiety with something stronger than bubbly water, and she still had to patrol in another hour or so. Tonight, she was happy just to sit alone, perched atop a low, cushy stool, hidden beyond the dance floor near the bar.

She wasn't _really_ alone, since most of her friends were here, somewhere or another. Giles had stayed home with Mom and Dawnie, but Xander was here, though he'd disappeared to god-knows-where the second they'd walked in the door. Anya, Willow, and Tara were there, too, only on the dance floor, laughing and spinning like they were the only ones in the club. Buffy smiled, feeling like a proud mother hen. After working so hard the whole day, they'd earned the right to shelf their preternatural burdens for a few hours of escape, whether it be alcohol-induced or of the sweaty, booty-shaking variety.

Spotting Ben across the club, Buffy considered going over to say hi.

Well, not right _up_ to him, because what respectable girl just did that? But maybe _near _him...so she could accidentally-on-purpose bump into him, get his attention, throw a flirt or two his way...

There was just _something_ about him, she couldn't put a finger on it. He was Prince Charmingly cute, super smart, and really, really sweet…. So what if it was all in that same bring-home-to-mom kind of way Riley had been? Riley had been safe. He'd been predictable. He'd been—

"Bleedin' crime, innit?"

The voice, as always, triggered an automatic roll of her eyes, and Buffy looked up from her reverie in time to watch Spike—sporting a pair of dark khakis, a light blue dress shirt, and a shiny brown leather jacket—seat himself in the chair opposite hers. It was weird seeing him in something other than his all-black punk goth getup. _But good weird, not bad, _she amended privately. Then felt like a fool for having even noticed the way he looked in the first place.

"Jackin' up the bar prices to pay for fixin' up this sinkhole," he griped. "'S not my fault insurance doesn't cover act of troll. And did you hear? The flowering onion got remodeled off the soddin' menu!" Spike leaned back and raised a bottle of beer in protest, then reached for his cigarettes, adding, "'S the only thing this place had goin' for it."

He didn't take his eyes off of her as he lit up, inhaled deeply, and blew out a thick stream of silver smoke. It was so rebel-without-a-care, that easy way he slid from one James Dean move into the next, and she was sure it made weaker women swoon.

She, of course, wasn't weak.

"How are you, Buffy?" he asked, his head all tilty and...concerned.

It made her feel strange—and if she was really honest, it also made her feel a little weak with swoonage—to be looked at like that. _Evil_, she reminded herself. _Soulless._ "Um, I'm okay, Spike."

"Good." He took another sip of beer, then sat back even further in his seat, crossing his leg over the other and shaking his ankle in time to the drum beat, completely relaxed as the silence stretched between them.

"Spike, what are you doing?" she finally asked.

The vampire frowned. "Wha-what do you mean what am I-?"

"Here? At this table? Just...I don't know...sitting there next to me. Like we're some kind of...sitting-next-to buddies?"

"Well, I saw you...all alone...thought, I don't know, you could...maybe do with a bit of, uh, y'know, company."

She raised an eyebrow and tilted her chin in what she hoped looked like disdain. _Icky, monster, demon_, she thought. _Evil._

His frown deepened and he grumbled, "Fine, suit yourself!" And then he got up and walked away.

She sighed, outwardly grateful to return her attention to her friends and Ben.

"Although…" Spike slid back into the seat, not five seconds later.

_This _was the kind of behavior that made it so easy to despise him.

"It's just...we took on that Glory chippie together," the vampire said. "I was right there with you, fightin' the fight. Points for intent, no?"

She didn't respond.

He rolled his own eyes this time. "You'd think that'd be enough to cut me a sliver of slack."

"I'd be happy to show you a sliver of something that _would_ cut you, Spike," she retorted, falling back on her oldie but goodie: _When in doubt, refer to Mr. Pointy. _

"Oooh, I bet you could make it hurt _so_ good, Slayer." Spike replied with his own: _When in doubt, go for the shag._

Buffy sighed, drawing her expression into one of exhaustion. "Look, Spike, I just don't have the energy to deal with your innuendos tonight, okay? Can't you just leave me alone?"

He scowled. "I wasn't meanin' to bother you, Slayer. I only wanted t' sit here and keep you company."

"Well, go sit somewhere else. You're making me feel all...wiggy."

"Wiggy?" he repeated, heaving an exaggerated sigh at her choice of words. "Where in God's green did you learn to talk, Slayer? It's a bleeding travesty what you do t' the language. And anyways, it's a free country, innit? Spent all day workin' with you lot, earned myself an invite. Think that means I can sit anywhere I wanna."

To prove his point, he sat back and took took another relaxed swig of beer. Then, in true Spike fashion, he launched into another tirade, nearly choking as the thoughts came up out of his mouth faster than the beer was going down.

"And while we're on the subject...I don't know if you noticed it today, Slayer, but your friends don't seem to mind me bein' around. In fact, they seem to even like ol' Spike." He preened like a peacock. "You'd think I've done enough to earn a little of _your _bloody respect! But no-o-o-o-o, Buffy can't come down off her bleedin' high horse and mingle with the commoners, can she? Well, Slayer, see if _I_ keep being so givin'."

Buffy glared at him for several seconds before she asked, "Are you quite done?"

He groaned, gave an exasperated sigh, then looked down at his feet. For a few moments, he seemed to be talking to himself. Then Buffy watched as he quieted, and his chest and shoulders rose and fell several times with unneeded breath. _He's forcing himself to calm down_, she realized, stupefied.

Sure enough, his voice was noticeably less defensive and much more calm when he finally looked up again. "You got a lot on your shoulders, luv. I just thought...well, I know you're kind of on your own, with Wonder Boy leaving an' with all your little pals pairing up and…" Spike's voice trailed off as he nodded at the dance floor. "It's just...well, if you ever needed someone to talk to...or even if you didn't want to talk, and you just wanted to sit...well, I'm here."

The music didn't seem to hit as hard in their little hidden alcove, so it was easy to hear the way his voice went a little softer...how his accent sort of rounded out a bit. There was a vulnerability she'd never noticed before, one that terrified her and confused her, and made her feel weird in ways she wasn't quite ready to admit when it came to Spike.

And then the weirdest thing happened...the look in his eyes dredged up the memory of that time she'd shown up to her locker to find Danny Adamson, eyes wide with terror, waiting to ask her to accompany him to the sixth grade dance. Spike was peering back at her with that _very_ same expression of fear and uncertainty, as if he was a nervous boy, laying it all out on the line, terrified of getting rejected.

Later, she'd realize she could have reacted in so many better ways. At that moment of panic, she went with the most familiar.

"Right…so lemme get this straight." She felt herself heading straight for Mean Buffy Mode, literally _unable_ to stop it from happening. This was, after all, Spike. "You spend the day with us pretending to be"—like Xander had earlier, Buffy drew air quotes—"one of the gang. And yeah, maybe there was some weird Scooby-Spike-likeage happening that's prob'ly gonna give me nightmares tonight. You offered some good advice and I know you're looking forward to kicking some serious Glory ass. But Spike, you're delusional if you think I'd _ever_ come to _you_ if I needed to talk. You're dangerous and icky_."_ After a breath, she added,_ "_And you don't have a _soul_._"_

Spike's expression went from uncertainty to embarrassment to hurt to outrage, all in the space of a second, and he rose to his feet and stomped off with an angry "Bugger this!"

Suddenly overcome with exhaustion, Buffy groaned, leaned back in her seat, and closed her eyes.

* * *

On the scale of bad decisions, this one was pretty high up there, even though Xander knew he had valid reasons for having made the decision in the first place. For one, he'd spent an entire day immersed in a memory...at least, that was the best way he could think of to describe it. Being with the gang was like reliving a memory. After so many months alone, searching for answers and dreaming of better days, he could hardly help it if he'd been a little too overwhelmed with happiness to think before he spoke.

He also blamed habit—_Curse you, habit!_—as he'd woken up amidst smells of home, spent the morning traversing the town where he'd grown up, then spent a day with those he held closer than his real family. And since he'd gone to the same place on a near-weekly basis since before he was in high school, it had been easy to just fall back into the old routine.

Needless to say, he didn't think twice when the question popped into his head...and it took a second or two for the fear to really set in after he asked the Scoobies:

"Who's up for the Bronze later?"

He could've kicked himself for the sheer stupidity. He could barely control the Splenden spooge in a room of his best friends, how was he gonna handle a nightclub full of drunk, sexed-up college kids? But it was too late, the invitation had been issued, and with even _Spike_ accepting, he couldn't very well back down.

He'd worried all afternoon and evening, which made him feel somewhat prepared for the worst when he stepped into the Bronze a few hours later...but only somewhat. Because what hit him was definitely the _worst_ kind of tidal wave...the thoughts of several hundred people, all concentrated like a heavy fog and bouncing off the walls of the enclosed space. It was sex and emotions and awful, awful insecurities, with an impact that was, quite literally, the most painful he'd ever experienced in his life.

Anya noticed first, reaching out to him in concern, and the light brush of her hand on his arm made his already overwhelmed system turn to absolute bat shit. He didn't want to hurt her any more than he already had the night before, so he mumbled an incoherent apology, said he didn't feel well, and then lurched blindly to the restroom.

Blessed, blessed peace could be found in the solitude behind a locked bathroom stall, even one littered with inspirational messages like "_Fart as loud as your anus will allow" _and "_T-Bone is da illest." _And thankfully, it seemed to mute the bulk of the problem. His pulse, however, was still skyrocketing ten minutes after he'd escaped the chaos.

_Work with me here, Georgie Boy_, Xander begged, rubbing his temples. _Work with me._

Concentrating on his Splenden demon—because yes, he considered George _his_ Splenden demon—helped, warming his chest, as if a ball of sunshine was growing from the center of his body. It made him feel strong, more in-tune with himself, and he suddenly wondered...if the Splenden's powers were primarily mental, could he block as easily as he received external signals? It was worth a try.

He remembered Willow relied on visualization anytime she prepared for a big spell, so he closed his eyes and imagined that ball of light in his chest radiating outward, covering his head and his heart like a suit of armor. He kept thinking about it, focused on the Splenden essence protecting him, not sure if he was imagining things or if there was really a tiny buzz floating up and over him like a suit of armor...and then it just _worked. _Sure, it took a tremendous amount of effort to control it, to keep it wrapped around his most sensitive parts, and he wasn't sure how long he'd be able to sustain it, but it worked. And he couldn't very well stay in the bathroom all night. So he rinsed his face with cold water, pep talked his reflection for another minute, and then went for it.

The struggle became real again as soon as he exited the bathroom. The amount of energy it took to keep the block up was _staggering_, but he waded through it. Pushed blindly through all of the people and the blurred mental images as if he was trudging across the bottom of the ocean, twenty feet underwater.

He had no idea where his friends were, and even though he was terrified of breaking his concentration, he quickly glanced up to scan his surroundings. At the other end of what he could only describe as tunnel vision, Anya, Willow, and Tara appeared. Dancing. On the dance floor. With a lot of other dancing people. Nope.

Another deep breath for extra focus, then a second quick scan found Buffy sitting at a table by the bar. Alone. With empty chairs around her. Since he felt infinitely more comfortable sticking to the sidelines, he pushed all of his will back into blocking the world around him and skated the perimeter of the crowd, careful not to make physical contact with anyone.

Xander was mentally, physically, and spiritually exhausted by the time he reached the table, vaguely aware of Spike storming off and Buffy leaning back in her seat with an exasperated sigh.

"Hey, Buff," Xander called out weakly. It was a struggle to get the words out. He couldn't have stayed at the Bronze under this kind of pressure if he'd _wanted_ to.

"Mm-hmm?"

"I'm not...feeling good….I'm'a get outta here." Only a few words came out between each shallow breath, he just couldn't afford the extra effort. Behind the haze of the mental block, he was aware that Buffy was staring at him, her green eyes wide open and full of concern.

"Wow, Xan, you don't look so hot."

He braced himself even harder to force the next words out. "Too many people...gonna boot. Tell Anya t' stay...and have fun. I'll...see 'er at home...later."

"Omigod, of course!" She went to grab her jacket. "Here, lemme walk you home."

"No," he assured her. He was pretty sure he was holding his hand up, intent on stopping her before she got close enough to touch. "I'm fine." He didn't want her following him, not where he was headed, he just knew he needed to get out of here, pronto, before he collapsed. "I just...need some air. 'Night, Buff."

Thankfully, that seemed to appease the blonde, because she nodded and sat back down. He made a quick exit.

Stepping outside, the relief was immediate. The barrage of mental pressure lifted, dimming into a peripheral buzz that he was more than capable of managing. Large indoor crowds were obviously gonna have to wait until he'd learned how to control his powers.

Then he looked up and realized there was a giant blockade of people still standing in his way _outside_ of the Bronze. Oh, boy.

Steeling himself against his next challenge, Xander took a deep breath and held it. He wasn't sure what role his sense of smell played in his new powers, but he wasn't taking any chances as he made his way carefully through the throng. He kept his head down and reached out only once, earning himself an immediate lesson in touch induced insanity. He politely excused himself every time after that and waited for people to move out of his way on their own.

For the most part, he was able to maintain enough control to walk freely among them without being pelted by their thoughts and memories. Which was good, because he had plenty of thoughts and memories of his own to sort through...and only a short walk to figure out what to do with them.

* * *

Across town, a well-coiffed porter was leaning against a fence post reading a Spiderman comic. A whistle blew, alerting him to the approaching train, and as the caravan came to a stop, he straightened up and waited for the first passengers to disembark.

There was only silence.

Confused, the porter looked around and announced, "Sunnydale Station! Last stop this line."

There still wasn't any movement, no passengers making their way off the train, no sounds of any sort coming from within the open cars. The porter looked again, puzzled at the empty platform, and climbed into the first of the chain of cars.

The smell hit him first, all coppery and metallic like the kitchen sink after his wife, Molly, cleaned it with her scouring pad. Then he saw the male passenger, lying slumped over a seat in the front row, blood slowly cascading from his neck and covering the pillow behind his head. On the rows behind him were other passengers, covered in their own blood and bearing the same expressions of gruesome death.

Panicked, the porter took a few stumbling steps, his breath heavy and loud out of parted lips. At the sound of footsteps behind him, he spun. His eyes went instantly wide, terrified.

"Oh, god! Oh, please! Help me! Somebody please! Help me!"

He kept shouting as he ran back to the open doorway, but before he could make his way back out onto the platform, something grabbed him from behind, silencing his screams and whipping him soundlessly back into the deadly car.

* * *

Spike knuckled the bottle of Lagavulin and lifted it to his mouth, tugging on the cork between blunt teeth until a satisfying _pop_ echoed through the crypt. He tilted his head back, relaxing into a deep pull of the liquid, concentrating on the trail of fire running down his throat.

"Uggghhhh," he groaned, rolling his eyes. He turned to the kitten perched on the arm of his comfy chair and said, "I had 'er. Walked right up t'her, sat down like a gentleman. Started chattin' 'er up a bit, asking 'er to talk to me like I was some bleedin' poofter invitin' the head cheerleader to the senior bloody prom."

He closed his eyes in frustration. The cat merely sat there staring, head tilted at a slight angle as if trying to make sense of her master's behavior.

"And you know, I never would've believed it if you'd've told me. William the fucking Bloody, Master Vampire of the Order of Aurelius, in love with the bloody _Slayer_."

Another burning mouthful of whiskey went down before he wailed again.

"I mean...what the hell am I _doing_ here?" He sighed again, deeply. Knocked back another mouthful of Scotch before he turned back to the tabby. "I know what you're thinkin'. I've thought it, too. This _thing_," he said, pointing at his chest, "with _her_...it's wrong. I know it. I'm not a complete idiot. But you'd think she'd at least throw me a crumb, right? A little sign she's noticing all the changes? Sees what ol' Spike's been doin' t' show her, yeah? But no. What's she do instead?"

Spike took another pathetic pull of whiskey as he considered, then shrugged and gave another short wail of a sigh. At the sound, the kitten's head tilted in the opposite direction, and she peered up at him with big, emerald eyes, watched him take another gulp from the bottle, swishing her tiny tail like a pendulum, from side to side.

"She just _laughed_ at me, 'at's what she did," he answered his own question. "And throws the same ol' _no-soul_ shit right back in my bloody fangs, just like she always does."

This time, the kitten harmonized his vampiric wail with a sympathetic _meow_ of her own. Giving her a weak smile, he curled the tips of two fingers under her neck and leaned in to rub his cheek against her tiny head. Sniffled once, blinked twice to staunch the rogue tear that snuck up out of nowhere.

As if to defend against the sign of weakness, and in a quiet, much more dangerous-sounding voice, he said, "Goddamn bloody bitch thinks I'm _beneath_ her. She should _be_ so lucky as to have me beneath her."

He sat up, distancing himself from the cat's tiny face to take another mouthful of Scotch.

"But no, it's only Spike. _Spike_ doesn't mind you goin' all ice queen on 'im. _Spike_ doesn't mind y' makin' googly eyes with the dimply-chinned doctor git across the room. _Spike_ doesn't mind babysittin' mom n' sis while you go frollickin' with your buddies."

He only got half a mouthful out of the next swig, and he held the bottle up against the light from the TV to confirm that, yes, it was nearly empty. The resultant growl took a few seconds to develop, but it started deep within his groin, far below the fiery pit where the whiskey was pooling in his belly. Erupted upward and outward, in a gale force that scared the kitten into a hasty refuge under his chair. He cocked his arm back and lobbed the empty Lag bottle against the wall of the crypt, where it shattered into a million tiny particles that rained down on the cement floor.

"Oooh, is that a new drinkin' game?" came a voice at the entrance to the crypt.

Spike hadn't sensed Harris' arrival, entirely focused was he on the angry regrets of his evening. "Bloody hell, Harris. I've had enough Scooby excitement for one day." When the boy didn't leave, he added, "Bugger the fuck off, wouldja? Leave us alone."

A high-pitched meow resounded from under his chair, followed by a quick swipe of a well-clawed paw against the back of Spike's bare foot.

He growled menacingly, jerking his ankle away. "Oooooh...you just wait'll I catch you, you little _demon_."

He reached for the devious kitten but missed, a feather-soft tail brushing against Spike's other foot as the little traitor leapt out from her hiding spot. She cast a disdainful look back at Spike before bolting across the crypt to greet their visitor.

"Well, hello there, little kitty," Harris said as he bent over to scoop up the fuzzball. The cat purred, nuzzling against the new human's warm hand and emitting a series of tiny, contented mewls. "Oh, you are just too cute. Is it a he or a she, Spike?"

"She," he answered automatically.

"Oh, izzat right?" Xander crooned in baby talk, caressing and cradling the pet against his chest. "You're a lil' princess, huh? A pretty, pretty lil' girl kitty cat?" He ran his hand over her soft, downy head a few more times and then looked up. "You know, Spike, this is gonna make the pussy jokes _awfully_ easy." He laughed when Spike rolled his eyes. "So when'd you get a pet, Bleach Boy?"

"'S not my bloody pet. Just a stray that won't leave me be." The revulsion was fake, but Spike laid it on thick, hoping the boy hadn't borne witness to the preceding feline therapy session. "No need for you to make the same soddin' mistake, Harris, so be a good little Scooby and scamper off. 'M busy."

But Xander didn't move. In fact, he...chuckled. "Yeah? You don't look real busy."

"Well, I _am _busy. In fact, right now, I'm extremely busy ignoring you. So get the fuck out." He unleashed his demon just enough to bring the ridges to his forehead and a golden glow to his eyes. "_Now_, Harris."

* * *

"So...is that, like, supposed to scare me?" Xander sighed, eyebrows arched over _gimme-a-break_ eyes_. _After a few seconds, Spike's bumpies receded as quickly as they'd appeared.

The teeny puffball pawed at Xander's chest and he cuddled her tighter, scratching behind alert ears and carrying her with him across the darkened crypt floor. _This is already different_, he noted. Spike hadn't had a cat the last time around...or had he and Xander just hadn't realized? When he stopped to half-lean-half-sit atop the sarcophagus opposite Spike's chair, the kitten leapt down from his arms to sit on the stone beside him. She peered up, glancing from Spike to Xander to Spike to Xander with giant green eyes full of feline curiosity.

Spike didn't look up and he didn't speak, so Xander did. "She can be a real bitch, can't she?"

With a deep sigh, Spike asked, "Who, the bloody kitten?"

Xander shook his head. "Buffy." And when Spike didn't react, he added, "Goes from sweetheart to domineering bitch in two-point-five seconds. It can be frustrating as hell."

Spike lowered his head with a quick chuff of agreement.

"May I?" Xander gestured to the table beside Spike, where a second, full bottle of Lagavulin still stood waiting to be opened. He waited until the vampire nodded, then busied himself opening the bottle with his teeth. He tipped a shot into his mouth and closed his eyes to savor the warm effects of the liquor.

"Didn't know you had a taste for single malt," Spike murmured. The kitten scampered off the sarcophagus and tip-toed up to Spike's foot, then leapt gracefully up to his knee where she leaned into him for a scratch. As he obliged, he sighed resignedly, asking Xander, "So, uh, if you're gonna be here foulin' up an otherwise pleasant night of solitude, think you can answer me something?"

"Sure."

"Why'd you do that today?"

"Do what?"

"You know. The pizza," Spike replied uncomfortably, refusing to take his gaze off his pet "'N all the little spicy bits that went with it."

Xander smiled. He hadn't even thought about it when he'd called in the order earlier that day, but his friends' reactions had clued him in to the abnormality—at least at this point in time—of Spike's dietary preferences being given consideration. Spike's question, now, had him awash with memories.

How many times had he called in their "regular" order, to the tune of Spike's _"Tell 'em not t' forget the spicy bits!"_ echoing up from the basement? How often had he argued with the vampire and Andrew over just how many pizzas were _too_ many for a house full of slayers-in-training? How many arguments had they had over who would foot the bill _this_ time, when Giles' credit card wasn't readily at hand? Christ, how often had he laughed as Spike dipped his crust in a mug of blood, a gaggle of potentials looking on in disgust?

But Spike wouldn't understand any of those memories, so Xander simply shrugged. And then reconsidered, figuring _what the hell_. "You know what the weirdest part was? I didn't even realize it at first. I was calling the Pizza-Rama and telling Billy I wanted our 'regular,' and he had no idea what I meant. I must've called that damn order in _at least_ eight hundred times."

Spike's confusion grew.

"So, uh, listen, Spike," Xander continued before the vampire could ask more questions. "There's a reason I came out here."

"So y' wanna get to your point?"

"I guess the first thing is...I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Okay?" Spike was incredulous. "You followed a master vampire, not knowing just how long it's been since his last meal, and you did it just to make sure he's _okay_?"

"Spike, you can't bite me without that damn chip going off. And I watched you snarf down almost a whole pizza and a quart of blood this afternoon. So yeah, I followed you. I also needed to tell you something."

Spike's incredulity morphed into absolutely disbelief...and then took on a sort of...too-cool-but-still-curious expectancy. It was a remarkably odd expression to see on the vampire's face.

Xander took a deep breath before he continued. "I wanted to tell you not to give up." Spike's eyes looked like they'd bug out of his skull with little provocation, but Xander pushed on. "We don't ever give you enough credit. And a lot of that's my fault. I'm…" Xander stopped again, this time because he was wondering how he'd say the next bit without Spike thinking he was plain whacked in the head. It ended up coming out in a rushed mumble. "Mmssrrr."

"Huh?"

Xander took a deep breath. With the exhale, he repeated more clearly, "I'm sorry."

Spike was dumbfounded.

Then the vampire held out his hand to Xander, gesturing toward the bottle of Scotch as he said, "Maybe you should give me s'more of that, mate. Whaddaya say?"

* * *

"Oh, he wouldn't've ever kep' up with 'er," said a fully inebriated Xander two hours later. "Riley wasn't as shitty a boyfrien' as Angel, but he was still a total wuss."

"Hear, hear!" Spike shouted, equally drunk and toasting Xander's words with the now-empty third bottle of Lag.

Three bottles of Scotch served up over two hours of revelations...with much male posturing, plenty of testosterone-fueled outbursts, and neither understanding a word of what was said. Both were completely and utterly trashed. They'd talked about nothing, drank to everything, and seemed to have found a happy medium where they could co-exist comfortably in a shared space.

How very, very odd to be sitting, alone in his crypt with the Whelp, almost like friends after years of being enemies.

"I dunno if y'know this, Spike, but was a time I thought the Slayerrrr..." Harris was slurring badly, and as he tried to force the words out, he swayed from his perch atop the sarcophagus. Spike chuckled as the boy tried to form the sentence yet again. "I thought the Slayerrrr...I though Buffy 'n me..._we _were meant t' be t'getherrrrr."

"So I've heard," Spike agreed, then giggled like a teenage girl. Because he _had_ heard. Angelus had mentioned it, back when he'd gone all soulless on the bunch, and Buffy had definitely complained about the Xander's attentions once or twice. And even then, he'd felt sorry for him. He could always sympathize, Spike could, with a man who saw his future in an unattainable love. Love's Bitch, was he. Apparently Harris, too. Buffy would never settle for the likes of Harris, but the boy never seemed to quit dreaming, reaching for the wrong star when the right one was in front of his face.

They were more alike than he'd admitted before, come to think of it, he and Xander. Surely that shouldn't be a comfort, though. Shit, he was drunk.

"Yeah, tell me about it. But it's not like that. Not at alllll," Xander slurred. "'Cuz I love the _right_ one."

Before his words could register in Spike's mind as suspiciously close to what the vampire was thinking, the boy leaned forward, precariously close to the edge of the stone structure upon which he sat, and continued.

"Which means it's your turn, you big lumpy vampire hunk man. _You're_ the answer, y'know. Thasswhat they told me." He swayed dangerously but didn't seem to notice. "_You're_ the reason I had to do it. You and Buff—hic!" He hiccuped, swayed. "So now we gotta getcha in like Flynn, cuz you two be—oh, fuck!" The last bit came out in a tumble as Harris toppled over, finally falling off the coffin and onto the hard stone floor below.

The cat, long since retired to her pile of towels in the corner, popped up like a jack-in-the-box, expressing her displeasure at being woken up with a sharp meow. Spike's reaction was a bit more disjointed, and though he jumped up from his comfy chair to reach out a helping hand to the boy, it was done with only half of his mind on his task.

_They told him I'm the reason? They who? And Buffy?_ _Is that what the boy had been about to say?_

Spike didn't dwell further on his thoughts, though, suddenly distracted by Harris, who'd gone completely stiff when the vampire touched him.

No, scratch that, he didn't just go _stiff_, he absolutely froze from head to toe, his eyes wide with a terrifying emptiness that transported Spike immediately to his days caring for a out-of-her-mind Dru.

They stood like that for several seconds, the two of them, Spike gripping Xander's arms and wavering between thoughts of Buffy and memories of Dru, and Xander staring listlessly back at the vampire, stiff as a board, blind eyes wide with shock. And both of them swimming in oceans of whiskey.

_What the bloody hell 'm I gonna do?_ Spike fretted._ Slayer's gonna fuckin' kill me 'f something happens to Harris while he's here. _

Which reminded him...he'd swiped that blue cardigan from the laundry basket in Buffy's basement, and he needed to get it put away downstairs before Harm came back lookin' for a fight. Last thing he needed was the blonde bimbo goin' on a rampage after seein' all his pictures of Buffy.

Struggling for a moment, Xander suddenly pulled away from Spike's clutches. The vampire watched the light slowly return to the boy's eyes, and then, as if nothing had been amiss at all, Xander smiled, nodded once at Spike, and stumbled toward the door of the crypt.

"So...uh, yeah," Xander slurred. "I'm gonna g' home 'cause Anya's prolly worried 'bout me." The young man reached for the door. "Just...listen, Spike, I know we've never been friends before, but I think we might could be. And I just want...whatever happens...just keep bein' your typical stubborn self, 'kay? It's worth it, I promise."

Spike sat down hard on his chair, speechless, able to do little more than watch as Xander swung the door open, took a step outside. As if remembering something, the boy suddenly spun back into the crypt, teetering on drunk toes until his hand against the wall steadied his balance once again.

"Oh, and one more thing. Don't jus' hide it downstairs. Ditch it completely."

"What the bleedin' hell are you natterin' on about?"

"Buffy's blue sweater—" Xander hiccupped. "Oh, and the photos of Buffy. All of it. Ditch the whole goddam Buffy shrine." Xander's head tilted unsteadily in the direction of the crypt's lower levels. He hiccupped again and then said, "It didn't...go over real well last time. Save y'rself the trouble, 'kay? 'Kay. I need to go home. G'night!"

And he stumbled out of the crypt, laughing maniacally, and leaving a speechless vampire staring out into the night after him.


	16. To Me You Speak Not

**Chapter Fifteen: ****To Me You Speak Not**

In a see-the-big-picture, grand-scheme-of-things context, having to share a body with a diabolical hellgod was a really shitty lot in life.

It wasn't as if Ben hadn't tried hard to be a meaningful contributor to civilized society. Because he had. He'd been a good kid, done well in school, made his parents happy. He'd dedicated every last penny, a whole decade of his existence to the pursuit of higher education. He'd lost countless nights and weekends shadowing the bigwig physicians, trying to impress the hospital board. There was real sacrifice there. Heart and soul kind of sacrifice. Making the world a better place and all that jazz.

In the long run, though, none of it mattered because, deep down inside of him, there lay a sentient being with an utter lack of empathy and a delight in brutal manipulation. Who, quite literally, thrived on the mindfuckery of others, who could pop up unexpectedly, always at the very worst moment possible, and who was more than happy to sucker punch him into next Tuesday.

Take the latest episode of _Life With Glory_, for example.

A few hours into a hellish night shift, and in the wake of one of the most thrilling secret identity reveals since _Who Killed JR_, Ben had found himself transported from hospital break room to god-knows-where. A matter of seconds, and _Sayanora, Sunnydale General_. With no clue how long he'd been gone or how he'd gotten there, covered in mud and leaves, scratches and bruises, feeling as if he'd been dropped from the roof of a fifteen floor building. And as usual, dressed a la Glory: slinky red mini dress restricting the flow of blood to his lower half, strappy high heels four sizes too small, thong shoved so far up his ass he could feel his scrotum in his throat.

Ultimately, after much fabric ripping and tantrum throwing, Ben had emerged from the woods to find himself on the north end of Sawgrass Road, an old trucker's passageway skirting the edges of Sunnydale. A walkable distance from home, thank goodness, since in _that_ getup, it would have been near impossible to come off as anything but cross-dressing, psychopathic serial killer.

Ben had arrived home just before dawn to a minion-free penthouse apartment. Spent the morning self-administering first aid on wounds of unknown origin, the rest of the day agonizing over what-ifs. Come nightfall, he'd fretted himself into a full blown anxiety attack, replete with heavy guilt, self-loathing and suicidal thoughts.

There was but one course of therapy. Misery, after all, loves company. And lots and lots of alcohol.

Ben had been at the Bronze for nearly an hour, several doses deep into his self-prescribed treatment plan, before he'd realized Buffy was there, too, reclined in a lounge chair across the club. The Slayer's lithe form had sent him into a panic and he'd set his half-drunk drink and two twenties on the bar, then hauled his cowardly ass toward the front door, hoping he'd escape before she saw him.

No such luck.

"Ben, hi!" Buffy had said.

He'd smiled, hoping he hadn't looked as _I'm-about-to-shit-myself_ as he felt. Made a joke about owning a wardrobe more expansive than blue hospital scrubs. Watched her dazzling smile turned into a laugh.

"Um, listen, so my sister," she'd said. "She told me what happened at the hospital last night. You know, before I got there."

Cue the rush of debilitating panic in his belly.

"And, well, I just wanted to say...thanks," she added. "For looking after her?"

"Oh, that's okay," he'd eeked out. "I'm just glad Dawn's all right."

But it felt wrong to take credit, as if he was admitting he was some kind of hero and not merely the meat suit of a mass murdering hellgod. So he'd bid a quick goodbye and retreated, tail between his legs, back to the somber solitude of home.

Which was where he now found himself, gods-knew-how-many fingers of bourbon later, gazing out from his balcony over the expanse of park below. Alone and terrified of what _might_ have occurred. Filled with heart-wrenching regret and wondering, if he gazed long enough, whether the world would reveal to him the answers he so desperately sought.

What would he have done if Dawn had witnessed his transition into Glory?

What if Glory had hurt Dawn as she had the mindless patients littering the hospital's hallways?

What if Glory discovered Dawn's true identity?

He didn't have the answers to those questions, but he was sure of one thing: it was up to him to do something, and he needed to do it soon. Because in the meantime, thanks to his hellgod sister, he posed a danger to everyone around him.

Ben groaned, dropping his forehead to his arm to the railing, wishing with every fiber of his being for a different life, a different destiny, a different burden. It didn't matter what he did. Didn't matter how clean his heart was or how hard he worked to make his life truly _mean _something.

Beneath it all, Glory made him unworthy.

* * *

Anya waved to Buffy, thanking her for accompanying her home from the Bronze and indicating that she'd made it safely to the front door, then waited for the Slayer to depart for patrol. Then she took a deep breath and, turning her attention back to the front door, pushed into the hallway very gingerly. Given Xander's luck — not to mention Buffy's engaging recollection of his exit from the Bronze, which was riddled with words like 'squick' and 'green' and 'barf' — it was entirely plausible that a putrefying intestine demon might come ripping out to attack her at any moment.

Those little shits were _fantastic_ when it came to exacting gut-wrenching vengeance, but from the receiving end, they were a real pain in the ass. Literally.

When she instead walked — quite safely, in fact — into a dark and silent living room, spotted Xander's jacket draped over the back of the sofa and his keys on the table beside it, Anya took it as a good sign that it didn't reek of fermenting innard. He must have made it home safely and was probably asleep.

Then she heard him howl, his Panicked Xander voice breaking the silence from behind the closed bedroom door. It sounded sort of like a cross between those shrieking eels in the Princess Bride and the _woop-woop_ing noise an ambulance makes when its siren first revs up. And it was followed by a loud crash, slapping flesh and a thud on the wall. She raced to his rescue fearing the worst.

Whiskey fumes strong enough to fell a horse hit her the moment she flung open the bedroom door. His lamp was on the floor, its shade askew, and his clock radio was hanging by its cord from the bedside table. She looked up to find her boyfriend perched atop the bed, toes scrunched into the pillows and arms splayed out against the wall, clad only in his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle boxers and staring like a star-drunk lunatic at the ceiling above him.

With a sudden gasp, he slurred, "Getthafuckout!" And then he dissolved into a fit of stark-raving-mad giggles interspersed with "Are you really?" and "But how?" and "Tha's so freakin' cool!"

After a few moments, Xander's initial excitement seemed to wane, and when his half-drunk voice once again slurred at the ceiling, "Well, it's nice t' meet ya," she figured she'd seen enough.

"Xander," she called, keeping her voice low for fear she'd send them into shock or give him a heart attack if she pulled him out of his hallucination too soon. Or was that sleepwalking? She groaned. All of these stupid, human things to worry about. Maybe she shouldn't take the chance. Only slightly louder, she called out to him again. "Xander. Can you hear me?"

He didn't seem to register her presence, too engrossed in his conversation, so she watched, frozen and silent, as he nodded, furrowed his eyebrows, drew his mouth into a wide, goofy smile and then nodded again.

"Well, yeah, I guess so," he said. "I mean, it's not like they told me what t' expect. Never been invited to a demonic Tupperware party before." Xander listened for a second then laughed. "Well, yeah, as far as results go...I think I can deal with this. I mean, you're already stuffed so far up in my ass I can taste you in my throat, right?"

"Xander," she tried again, keeping her voice level even she found it a little off-putting to hear her boyfriend discuss anal sex with the drywall.

When he swung his head around, glanced down to see her standing here, she was relieved. But Xander made no comment other than, "Oh, hey, Ahn," before returning his attention to the ceiling. As if he was greeting a neighbor over the zucchini bin at the grocery store.

"Well, du-u-u-uh," he continued to address his invisible confidante. "What'd you expect? 'Course she's gorgeous. She's my girl." And after a beat, "Wait, are you serious?" After another, "You _what_?" And then, his voice at an unnaturally high pitch, "With _her_?"

"Xander?" Anya called out again.

"Aw, c'mon. You gotta be kidding," he said, ignoring her. Then more forcefully, "No, absolutely not. There's no way I'm gonna—"

"Xander Harris!" Anya's palm slammed twice against the bedside table, the impact knocking the clock radio the rest of the way to the floor and sending a bolt of pain up her arm. It did the job. Xander's head swung in her direction, eyes lit with surprise.

"Huh? Wha—"

"Xander, you need to tell me what the _hell_ is going on," she threatened.

He just stood there, dazed for several long seconds before the confusion seemed to clear. Then he sighed, braced one hand against the headboard and lowered himself to the mattress. With the other, he rubbed the back of his neck in a weary, wary, self-conscious gesture that Anya found nauseating...and okay, maybe a little adorable at the same time.

"Xander!" she intoned again, a warning.

He took another deep breath and finally looked up, glancing quickly at the ceiling with a scowl before his eyes alighted once again upon hers. And then he finally spoke.

"George says hi."

* * *

She inhaled deeply, drawing the surrounding scents in through her nostrils, over the back of her tongue, down into lungs long since stilled. She could sense him, her William, in every corner of the crypt and all around her. The scent of that vile swine's blood, the whiskey he drank, the cigarettes and the worn leather. The bite of nail polish and the peroxide that burned holes in his scalp. Air thick with power, on the walls, in the dirt, under the fuzz covering the tiny feline whose lovely, sharp claws brought beads of blood to the surface of her own ivory skin.

Drusilla had sensed him, even in the traces he'd left throughout the cemetery. Blood calling to blood, Childe to Sire. But different. Brighter. Sweeter. Like grape popsicles in the bright, summer sunshine.

"My little birdy's learned to fly," Drusilla crooned sadly. "Soon, now, he'll touch the sun."

Though if she was honest with herself, she'd always known it would happen. The stars had told her long ago, and the pixies said he was closer this time than the other. For this time he'd have someone to keep his wings from melting away.

On a sigh, Drusilla tongued her forearm, licking the blood left by the kitten's talons as she listened to the whispers around her. The invisible companions who accompanied her everywhere, dancing, licking with their own tongues of heat, screaming like star music, like a meteor's flash, blank when it's gone...gone...gone…

No! There were too many. Too, too many voices. A hard shake of her head dispelled them, admonished them. She focused again on him.

_William…. My William... My sweet, darling, deadly William…._

As indubitably as she knew her own name, knew her own bloodline, she knew this would be their goodbye. He wouldn't follow her. The bad sister was coming, lured toward her freedom before she got pulled like a turnip back into slavery once again. Like a dustpan filled with the dirt of ages...covering the parlor floor as the drapes were pulled back.

The burn...oh, the burn. Drusilla held the back her hand against her forehead, swaying a bit. It burned _so_ badly, she wailed.

Even when the pain ebbed finally, petering out, a scorching flame sunk to a low smolder, she continued to hold her dark head between tapered, blood-red fingers tipped with white moons, and whispered forlornly to whoever was listening.

"Butter won't tame the burn, my sweet. Not even the best butter, for crumbs have gotten into it and now it's spoiled for Mummy."

The mention of crumbs set the pixies a-giggle once more, and as they fluttered about, they whispered secrets into her ear and made her smile once again.

Sighing, she stretched, gathered her strength. And with the thorns of the rose she'd purloined from a nearby grave, she dragged channels into her cheek, the flower's velvet petals coating the raw flesh with the sickly, sweet fragrance of decay. And with one last nod to the stars and the moon and the pretty, pretty pixies, she swept gracefully into the crypt to find her mark.

* * *

After the 24 hours he'd had, Spike hadn't even bothered questioning Harris' suggestion. He'd simply finished his smoke and the last of the Scotch, then sauntered across the crypt and dropped easily from the first to the subterranean level.

An odd sense of..._something_ lingered over him as he'd made his way across his bedroom and into the corridors behind. A tingle of familiarity, calling to him, tugging at the corners of his mind. It passed, though, and he set about his task.

The mannequin had gone first, blonde polyester wig and all, shoved bodily into the rubbish bag, consigned without a second thought to the same dump from which it had originally been scavenged.

He'd lingered a bit over the blue cashmere sweater, stretching it wide before him, then wadding it up in a soft ball against his nose so he could breathe her in. Feeling as if his very existence depended upon her scent for survival — and perhaps it did — he'd decided to keep the garment.

The photos came next, pried carefully from their mount on the vanity mirror. He worked slowly, peeling off the bits of sticky tape, taking his time so nothing tore. He'd caressed the curve of her cheek in one picture, studied the shine of her hair in the next, imagined tongueing the expanse of stomach in another. Some photos were packed into an old shoe box under the bed. One found a home in his jacket pocket. Three particular favorites were tucked into the volume of Keats he kept in the drawer of his bedside table.

When he was finally done — when the vanity was much less shrine-ish, the pieces more..well, sprawled around the bedroom — he stood, just in time for the kitten to come tearing down the ladder. She seemed to be fleeing from something and came careening, right up Spike's leg and into the safety of his arms. Rubbing chipped fingernails against the animal's soft head, Spike made low, comforting noises until the tiny body relaxed. Then he brought the pet to his nose. It smelled of fear, adrenaline...blood.

There was a soft swish of something — or someone — falling from the main floor of the crypt above him.

A shuffle sounded behind him.

The scent of something very, very familiar.

_Bloody hell._

"Who's there?" he called into the shadows, though he already knew the answer.

"A happy memory, pretty Spoike," came the reply.

Drusilla emerged from the shadows, wrapped in a bandage, holding a red rose against a bloodied cheek and peering at him through long, dark lashes. Her voice sounded like black silk when she spoke again.

"Look who's come to make everything right."

* * *

Patrol had been uneventful. A single dusting in an alley near the hospital. A close call in the park, in which she'd nearly staked a human boy giving his equally human girlfriend a hickey. Otherwise, all quiet — and all boring — on the Sunnydale front.

She exited Crestview Cemetery and looped back toward home byway of Main Street. It was late, and the storefronts were all closed for the night. She hadn't seen a car pass for several minutes. As she neared the darkened Espresso Pump, she could hear the beeps and crackling static of a police scanner. The noise was floating out of an empty cop car, parked in front of the coffee shop with its windows left down, broadcasting emergencies to whoever was willing to listen.

"I've got a 1-8-7 at Sunnydale Station," the tinny voice squawked. "No weapons reported but we need a safe response zone in case there are shots fired. It was reported anonymously from a pay phone down the street. Caller stated there were multiple bodies, a lot of blood at the scene."

Replies came in over varying degrees of static, combinations of numbers and cop lingo crackling like popcorn. Buffy didn't stick around to listen. Taking off at a full slayer sprint, she raced off, arriving at the train station, as she'd expected, first on the scene. The 10 o'clock train was parked at the rear of the building, doors open wide as if inviting passengers to fill its belly.

The whole place reeked with the coppery scent of blood.

Steeling herself against the initial wave of nausea, she climbed into an open car and took inventory of the bloodbath before her.

At her feet lay the porter in a pool of red. Blood was still dripping from a wound on the side of his neck. His eyes were open, empty and lifeless, the pupils frozen with terror. The poor man's mouth was wide with one last, silent scream.

To her left, in a seat near the entry, a male passenger lay slumped over to the side, blood on his neck and soaked into the pillow behind his head.

A female passenger, also slumped over in a seat a few rows back, was covered in blood. A rivulet of crimson still oozed from the side of her neck.

Yet another female passenger, eyes wide open in a death stare similar to the porter's, lay across a row on the opposite side. Her arm, outstretched into the aisle, was covered with blood from a wound on her wrist. The last few inches of her long, braided tail of blonde hair were soaked with blood.

Buffy had little doubt there were more victims in the other train cars, but she didn't really need to look. She'd seen enough to make a logical summation.

_Survey says: Vampire._

Buffy sighed and looked around again, but outside of the obvious _whodunnit_ she'd already conducted, there was little more to garner in the way of clues. It was clear that there was a vampire — and quite possibly a whole brood of them — roaming the streets of Sunnydale, putting countless innocent residents at risk. The sooner she got to the dusty bottom of it, the sooner she could get back to figuring out how to kick Glory's hellgoddy ass back from whence it came.

Sirens off in the distance told her the police would be there any minute. While the Sunnydale PD was notoriously incompetent, that didn't make it any smarter for her to be found at the scene of a crime. So she turned back toward the door, careful not to disturb the bodies in their state of final repose, and made her way out of the train.

Before she'd stepped down off the ledge, she became aware of her Spidey senses tingling, that dull but incessant vibration in the pit of her stomach. Oddly, it felt the way it did when she was around Angel or Spike, only it felt fainter...more vague.

Instinctually, Buffy closed her eyes and relied only on her Slayer senses, turning this way and that to test them like a game of supernatural _Hot and Cold_. They seemed to be sharpest when she faced away from the door. Went stronger still when she tilted her head upwards. So she opened her eyes and climbed upon the upholstered seat, pulled herself up with a hand on the overhead bin to look inside.

She froze.

Eighteen inches of the creepiest damn doll she'd ever seen, all dirty lace and poplin and porcelain, with two tiny hands extended toward her. Arms frozen in invitation. And a red velvet ribbon tied tightly around its eyes. Deathly fear in toy form...calling to her.

And she suddenly knew who had been on the train.

And what she needed to do next.


End file.
